The refrigerator made a low buzzing sound.
There was no dishwasher, no laundry room, and no space for a dining table.
To me, it looked like safety.
Trixie ran from one end of the bedroom to the other.
“Can I put stars on the ceiling?”
“We’ll see.”
“That means no.”
“It means we’ll see.”
She gave me a serious look, then opened the closet.
“It’s small.”
“So are your clothes.”
That made her laugh.
The landlord, Mr. Alvarez, met me in the driveway.
He was somewhere in his 70s, wore the same gray work shirt every single day, and had a face that did not give away a single thing he was thinking.
His hair was white and cut close to his head.
His hands looked rough, and there was a thin scar near his left thumb.
He looked at me, then at Trixie, then at my car.
