Our Realtor, Pam, parks her Audi on the narrow street, barely wide enough for one car to pass at a time, which sits at the top of a very steep hill. The street reminds me of the time I visited San Francisco, only in miniature. Pam rushes around to open our doors.

“Did Daddy put the flag there?”

“Yes,” Pam lies to my daughter, Lily. “He’s a war hero!”

I can feel my heart split, as if it’s been cleaved in two by a butcher.

Pam and I are roughly the same age, early thirties, but Pam is somehow still filled with the same unbridled enthusiasm as Chance, the Irish setter we had growing up. I am filled only with a dull ache brought on by silent rage due to a confusing war that has stolen the husband I once knew.

Pam salutes Lily, who mimics the patriotic gesture. Pam turns to me and salutes.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson,” she says, quickly lowering her arm. Her blond bob trembles in the breeze, just like her lips, which are slathered in pink gloss.

“Abby,” I say.

“I understand, Mrs.... Abby. It’s okay. You must be so nervous about your husband all the time.”

I force a smile. “I am,” I say. “Didn’t mean to be so short.”

She turns toward the house, and her Chance-like enthusiasm returns as she reenters agent mode. “This is a Sears kit home,” Pam says as my daughter sprints for the front porch and jumps into the swing.

“A what?” I ask.

“A Sears kit home,” she continues. “Oh, my goodness, Abby. They’re historic now! Sears homes were shipped via boxcar and came with a seventy-five-page instruction manual. Most homes were sent via the railroad, and each kit contained thousands of pieces of the house, which were marked for construction. You can still find lumber that is numbered throughout the house. They did lots of different styles, from bungalows to Colonials.”

“This house and the one next door were both Sears homes,” she says, before nervously beginning to babble, “but...but...but...the two homes are nothing alike.”

I look at Pam, whose face is registering absolute panic, and then turn to look for the first time at the neighboring house.

“That’s an understatement,” I say. “It looks like a prison.”

An imposing wooden fence, which is—no exaggeration—at least ten feet tall surrounds the property. The second story of the home, which looks to be identical to this one, despite what Pam has just said, is all peeling paint. The roof’s shingles are buckled, and moss is growing on a shady patch under a towering tree whose first leaves are blush red.

“What’s the story?” I ask.

Pam’s face turns the color of the tree. She takes a deep breath.