They are headed up an artery named Van Veldt. Dilapidated mansions bake on brownish lawns.

Loudermilk appears happy as the proverbial clam. He keeps his eyes peeled for bunnies. He says, “This is a stellar district.”

Two very blond things in white miniskirts cross a lawn. Loudermilk accords them a tiny salute.

Loudermilk pauses mid-lope. Set back from the sidewalk some fifty feet is a bungalow. It leans slightly to the east. “Yes.” Loudermilk consults a scrap of paper. “Yes.” He turns up the front walk.

There is an overwhelming onion reek rising from thick grass. Near the bungalow’s entry is an orange plastic sled with a hole melted into its pilot’s seat, and the rotting remains of what must once have been a woodpile. Loudermilk raps on the doorframe.

Harry says something about how maybe he’ll just head back to the car.

Loudermilk mutters, “Maybe, dude.” He tugs at the door.

“Hello? Hello? Wait for me, please?”

There is someone speed-walking up the path from the street. It is a female person with a wide-brimmed summer hat, dark glasses. Sizable breasts chug along on her slight frame.

Loudermilk stops what he is doing in order to inspect the boobs.

As the person comes into their midst and apologizes for her tardiness, as she is laying her dry palm into theirs and calling herself Evelyn, it gradually emerges that she is middle-aged. Her hair is long, the color of sand. It additionally becomes clear that she loves sunflowers, that her husband is her third. On occasion she acts as slumlord.

“How about we go inside?” Evelyn, glancing at Loudermilk’s pink hat along with its interesting exhortation, indicates that she is ready to bring pleasantries to a close.

The kitchen has a bar. There is a main open area. At one time, a wall must have surrounded what appears to be a working bathroom. Only a faint rectangular outline on the floor remains. A toilet and a footed tub grace the center of the space.

“It doesn’t have a basement, I want you to know that,” says Evelyn.

“This seems like a very bona fide spot!” Loudermilk tests the flush on the toilet.

Evelyn wheels on one gardening clog. “Take it easy!” she shouts.

There is a hideous sucking sound as all the water is evacuated from the bowl. Something slithers. There is a clank, a hiss, a choked sigh. The shower comes on. The stream lands brownish.

Evelyn claps her hands. She is looking joyfully over the side of the tub. “He did fix it! That man is a genius!”

Loudermilk is wearing his 1950s corporate-circumspection face. “How’s that?”

Evelyn is brisk. “Let me just show you the other two rooms.”

Then, and it’s not exactly clear why this happens, they end up telling Evelyn that they like the place. A lot.

Loudermilk says, “But, Evelyn, we have to be on the same page about the bathroom.”