She went to the kitchen, thinking of what lay ahead. The basement was the nightmare. If anyone thought of a basement as ballast for a house, hers would never fit the description. Her basement was emotionally fraught territory. At least she didn’t try to fool herself. She just wasn’t ready to face it head-on.

She had no plans to move out of her house, even though ownership was becoming . . . well, onerous. Simple as that. She called up the Latin: onerosus, meaning “burden.” Indeed, yes. Burdens could be oppressive. The more she owned, the more “things” to look after. Things: exactly what she didn’t want. Maybe she should tackle the dining room next. Furniture was bulkier, higher; she might have to call in assistance. ReStore again? How many times a year did she use the dining room, really?

Think of the pleasure of strolling from one empty room to another. Think of the pleasure of a journey through an empty house. A tear escaped onto one cheek, and she brushed it away. Come on, she said to herself. It’s been three years. You like the idea of paring back. You use the kitchen, bathrooms up and down, one bedroom, your office upstairs. That’s about it.

She reached for the mug she’d abandoned when the men arrived, but her coffee was cold and she dumped it down the drain. She stared out into the backyard. The leaves were turning red and gold; it was that time of year. Change went on outside the house, no matter what transpired within.

Maybe she needed a new idea, a different sort of journey. She sat at the long kitchen table, pulled a piece of paper toward her and reached for a black marker. Think, she told herself. Write things down. This is what you’re good at. Think this through.

She went to the phone and hit the memory key for Cass’s number. While waiting for her friend to pick up, she thought: Change, to make or become different. Cambiare, Latin; changer, French. Yes, change would definitely help.

MARVIN’S GROCERIES OPENED AT NINE. By ten, Hazzley was in front of the community board, which was fastened to the wall in a narrow space at the end of the checkout aisles. She had her sheet of paper in one hand and four red push-pins in the other. Although extra pins were scattered about the edges of the board, Hazzley had brought her own. She pinned her notice in a prominent spot and scanned the board, marvelling at the earnest business of information exchange. Never, until this day, had she posted anything. A few customers were usually standing around, taking photos with smartphones or scratching numbers and websites onto bits of paper. On this Thursday morning, no one but Hazzley was present.

The rules of the board, enforced by Marvin, were printed in bold lines across the top:

Notices must be dated and will be displayed for two weeks before being removed.

Offensive or distasteful material will not be tolerated.