Middle of the woods. It’s cold and rainy. Everyone is wearing camo, except for me and the mennonites—father, son, and grandfather, wearing straw hats. Standing around in boots in thick mud in the back yard: “Hey Jim! How are ya?!” I’m the only one in sneakers. The house is small and smells likes mildew. many of the ceiling tiles are sagging and brown. There’s buckets of nails, buckets of copper pipes, buckets of fluorescent tube lights. The floor in each room is a patchwork of different styles and eras of linoleum. In the kitchen, there’s a small table near the window with a coffee maker and a microwave. This is where he sat, the unknown and now deceased owner. Next to the hot water tank, which somehow was on display in the kitchen next to the table, but clearly marked with a tag and scribbly sharpie handwriting (”stays with the house, not for sale”).