A puffy, antique quilt in a rainbow of colors monopolizes her bed—something Mom would buy at a craft show.

Oddball art covers her walls. An almost-bad painting of a cat wearing a crown. Random British-looking landscapes with chunky frames.

An old CD player and two short CD towers.

I round the double bed to eye her music. One tower is labeled AM, and the other PM. Upbeat music falls under her morning listens. Early Taylor Swift. Mac Miller. Mozart. Bach. Beyonce. Pharrell Williams. The Beach Boys. Katrina and the Waves. Under PM, she prefers Juice WRLD, Post Malone, Chance the Rapper, Jay-Z, Ruth B, and Norah Jones.

I smile, flipping through the stack of old-school CDs and her eclectic collection. She has everything from jazz to classical to rap.

“Everything okay back there?”

I answer by popping in a CD and hitting play. The sultry sounds of Norah Jones and the delicate taps of a piano fill the small house. The notes appear in my head, making my fingers twitch.

“Nosey Nelly!” She exclaims, laughing.

I travel through the short hallway, passing a large bathroom with a stackable washer and dryer. A closed door across the hall makes me curious, but I don’t go in.

“Thought you might like a little music,” I tell her.

“I’m always down for music.” She smiles at me from the couch, still petting the cats, snuggling at her sides.

“Nice CD collection. I thought I was the old one here. Ever heard of streaming?”

She gapes over my joke. “Yes! But I get ten CDs for a dollar at any thrift store! That’s way better than paying monthly for a service. Plus, it’s nice, rescuing things.”

I nod, looking around at her rehomed cats and thrifted furniture. That’s what she does. She rescues things.

Her place is tidy and interestingly put together. It’s all warm beiges, pops of red, and earthy greens, but not like Christmas. The red couch matches her red hair and the red tulips on the curtains. The greens in her lampshades and knick-knacks match her enormous plant collection—they’re everywhere, somehow livening the place up without looking cluttered. The beige carpet, throw pillows, and blankets match her mismatched wood furniture, adding warmth and golden hues. It’s a home constructed via yard sales that somehow works.

But for what it has in oddities, it lacks in personable items. Nearly every blank wall space is filled with shelves and frames, but only one picture—a framed selfie of her and Ashe at the beach—sits on the table beside her.