* * *
It rained so hard, the wicker baskets were overflowing. Water poured through the ceiling, carrying nails, unrecognizable timbers, and sloppy pink insulation. It was a relief to go outside.
“This isn’t as bad as the time our house burned down in the middle of Death Valley,” said Herbert, standing under the useless awning.
“Why?” I shouted, skeptically, through the pounding roar.
* * *
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