All of our belongings were packed in bags and boxes in the yard.
It was time to go.
With a creaking of beams, the white-painted house reared and stood over us on its foundation. It was not our house. Not anymore. I suppose it was its own, if it was anyone's; the bank was welcome to try and catch it. It paused, then turned and shambled away.
Somehow, I didn't start to cry until I saw the Forrester's shiny new automobile with the parts special-ordered from all the way back East, come trotting by on the Wellsby's beat-up old nag.
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
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