1645. That was the house number. It was laid across the wood paneling in a diagonal with those metal-looking plastic numbers from the hardware department. It should have been 1645.5. The house was that small. I can’t believe there was actually a number for it. It was nestled between two houses with enough room on either side to walk, but it’d be a problem if you had a riding lawn mower.

The house could have fit in any two-car garage. It almost looked like a play house. “What’s that? A shed?” “No, it’s where our kids go to play house. When they play house, they really play house.”

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