“Peanut, Hazelnut—you name a nut, we’ve got it. We’ve even got a Brazil Nut Street. Willard Park is very multiculturally oriented.”

“Multicultural is good,” Grant said, possibly just to show that he was awake.

“It was quite progressive in the sixties. One of the houses was a commune even, but most of those folks are gone now, retired or . . .” She stopped herself. What had she kept herself from saying? Dead?

Nina slowed down as they drove by a series of little older houses, many with porches, most somewhat run down. “These are our Sears houses. Aren’t they just darling?”

They were darling. They were small—quite small—but darling. Could they buy a very small, somewhat dilapidated house in a perfect neighborhood? Would it be like buying a lesser property in Monopoly? Baltic Avenue wasn’t worth much, but it got you on the board.

Nina sped up as they drove by the ranches and split-levels, as if she wanted to drive right through them. “It was really only after World War Two that the town began to grow in earnest. We’re up to nearly thirteen hundred residents these days.”

They passed what looked like a one-room schoolhouse, which turned out to be a children’s library, and a bandstand decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. “It’s so Norman Rockwell,” Suzanne said.

“Right?” said Nina.

Grant said, “Yeah. A little eerie. Remember the Twilight Zone episode . . . ?”

Nina jumped in, telling them about the cherry blossom beautification program. She waved to a little boy examining the sidewalk with a magnifying glass, then slowed down to let them admire the wooden train, big enough for kids to climb on. “Willard Park is a place for the imagination.”

“That little fountain,” Suzanne said. “Can people picnic there?”

“It’s a favorite spot.”

“Mmmm,” Suzanne purred. She didn’t even know she could purr.

“We have a snowman-building contest after the first snowfall. All the kids go home with a ribbon. There’s a children’s bicycle parade on Labor Day, a town pride day in July, caroling in December . . .” Nina sped up, racing by a street that had potential.

“Let’s go down there,” Suzanne said.

Nina coughed and shook her head. “Well, there’s some construction . . .”

“That’s okay.”

“Tunlaw it is,” Nina said, turning right.

“Tunlaw,” Grant said. “How is Tunlaw a nut?”

“Good point! I never thought about that. Is it a nut?”

A man biked past, a bright yellow bicycle helmet on his head and a reflective safety vest over his shirt. “Hi, Ted,” Nina called out the window. “Ted and Allison live—” Nina began, but Suzanne had seen the apocalypse.

They were all silent as they drove by this property, with its looming white house.