I drove under an arch with “Silverwood Estates” printed across a rising-sun motif and followed a winding blacktop track, slowing for the speed bumps, until I came to an egg-yellow modular unit with a sign saying “Office” nailed to a deck post. I got a set of keys and Roy Weeks’s handwritten instructions from the mailbox and we drove farther into the estate, looking for unit 99. I missed it the first time by. “That’s it,” Raphaella pointed. “The one back there by itself, against the trees.” I reversed the van and drove up a dirt track to my new abode, a “single-wide” mobile home, pea green with white trim around the windows and door. A satellite dish sat on the roof. A wooden deck ran the length of the trailer. On three sides a lawn enveloped last year’s flower gardens. We sat in the van, looking the place over. It would be private, and pretty quiet, I guessed, tucked up against the forest, separated from the other units. Inside, it was bright, clean and almost new.
