Not that much progress seems to be happening. Again, with the amount of racket they’re making, you’d think they’d have built the Eiffel Tower in the backyard by now. But no, I look back and it still looks like the same hole. A few boards here and there, some string up around the periphery, to mark it. But really, not much. Not to be judgmental. But honestly.

I mean, it seems almost a Sisyphean joke, they hammer and hammer way, and nothing seems to change. They saw and drill and dig. And yet, the same dirt hole.

Obviously, I have no idea what they’re doing. So, this is probably just ignorance on my part. I’m sure it’s quite technical. A foundation or whatever. Setting the proper structural supports.

I resolve to get back to my beloved Ancient Aliens.

Somewhere in the middle of the analysis of the soil behind the Sphinx, which weather-dating and erosion puts much earlier than the pyramids, by the way.

I head down the stairs to the kitchen. The file folder the professor prepared with all the various dos and don’ts of the place sits in the place I tossed it, directly under the window. I gather up the papers to neaten them, exposing the tab on the folder, on which the professor has stuck a laser-printed label.

QUINCE HOUSE.

Strange. Is the professor doing some kind of research project? A new nonfiction Pulitzer contender? Nevertheless, it is thoughtful of him to reuse the folder. Ecologically sound. But of course he probably recycles everything from his coffee cups to his tweed blazers.

Still, it’s strange that—

I hear a noise from elsewhere in the house. It appears to be coming from the dining room, which is odd because that is the least active place in the house. It’s more of an exhibit. An installation meant to be looked at, rather than actually lived in.

There’s a mahogany table and matching fancy chairs, each spread around the table as if waiting for guests to arrive. The walls are filled with oil paintings of very old, very pale men looking down in a decidedly snooty way. Perhaps they do not approve of the menu. Or perhaps they do not approve of the lack thereof. The room is lit by sconces, but they are never turned on because clearly this room is used on extremely rare occasions. A dinner party with colleagues, perhaps.

I imagine the professor and his peers pontificating until all hours of the night while his aloof wife frowns somewhere in the living room before retiring to an early bed.

But there are no academics in there now. Far from it.

Instead, there at the head of the table, as if he’s just about to be served the pickings of the feast, is Mike. The boss of the construction crew. His hat is off this time and he frowns down at the table in a pensive manner. Baseball Hat Mike. What is he doing?

“Um, hi,” I say, giving him an opportunity to stand up and make an apologetic exit.