I have been looking all over the balding countryside and even the areas of urban attempt for a house to rent. The first was the smaller end of a duplex, the connecting door of which wouldn't conceal my devil worship. Lindsey and I drove around to some other places after that. We happened upon a white house overlooking water with a large deck and a wall of windows. It was a place you might picture keeping me—something about it pulled on me, maybe its modesty. I peered into the living room, imagining sunny Saturday afternoons and crisp autumn nights. Family Fourth of July cookouts with stretched little girls planting their nostrils on the wooden railing, looking toward symmetrical splashes of color. Maybe the neighborhood dog, curious without a tail, will stop by and wait for an accident.

Yeah, my hopes are high, but probability isn't with me on this one. That's fine because I know we'll find a nice place. And nearly anywhere with a person you love is better than most places without them. I've been ready to move out of here for a while.

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