Or the right words just haven’t been invented yet.

I reach out to close the back door and shut this whole interaction down when I notice something real quick. Something I remember distinctly noticing was there just last night.

The eye charm thingy is missing.

The one from Turkey.

I look at the foot of the doorway, down the porch steps to the dirt, and out at the yard. But no. No jingling blue silver anything. Nothing.

Nowhere to be found.

I look out at Mike, having a conversation with his crew.

No, he wouldn’t take it.

I mean, didn’t he just say he wouldn’t take any “tchotchkes”?

Of course he wouldn’t.

And maybe I look around at all the other outside doors to find the Istanbul eye thingies and maybe all of them are gone, too. All gone. Not a one left.

And maybe that could freak a girl out but, then, that girl might not be me. Because I am just going to assume that perhaps some of the crew thought they were kind of nifty and decided to take a few of them home to their wives and/or girlfriends. Or maybe someone passing on the road there took a shine to them. Whatever the case may be, it’s not a big deal that they were there and then not there. It’s just not a big thing.

Let’s not let our imaginations get carried away, now, shall we?

Chapter 21

I wish I could say I was one of those people who just flops down on the bed and falls asleep at night. You know, a normal person. The kind of person who watches reruns of Friends. Or maybe is a big fan of Cracker Barrel. And this normal kind of person just falls happily to sleep, not a care in the world.

But, my dearest dears, I have never been that person. Not since I was a little stick with a mop of hair, looking not unlike a lollipop. I can’t remember a time, or a place, where I did not flop on the bed, no matter how tired, and immediately start going through the catalog in my head of reasons for impending doom. I wish I had just been named Impending Doom. If I had just been named Impending Doom, everyone would know what to expect.

The worker guys outside are cleaning up for the day. At this point I have a habit of waiting for the sound of hammers and drills to stop, then sneaking to the window and staring out from behind the lace curtains at each of them, unsuspecting, putting various screwdrivers and saws in their proper places. You learn a lot by watching people when they don’t know they’re being watched.

For instance, I notice that these guys don’t feel nary an iota of shame walking around in a slump with their guts spilling out over their jeans. Not like girls.

No, it’s too terrible. But these guys. Welp, they just let it all hang out. And another thing, this may sound weird—and it’s quite possible I don’t know anything about this, mind you—but it really does seem like they’ve been digging that hole for the foundation for an awfully long time. Like, the whole time. And every day I expect to wake up and see the beginnings of the guesthouse, but it’s still, somehow, that same amount of dirt dug out of the ground. No change.