Dillion paused. “Feel what?”

“You feel that?” she asked.

By hour two, Dillion was ready to pack it in. She’d made lemonade no one drank and put out cookies that only Gizmo had sampled. The only remaining guest was an elderly woman named Mrs. Vancamp, who had already lived in the neighborhood since before the street had sidewalks.

Mrs. Vancamp wasn’t looking at the house. She was standing in the middle of the empty living room, eyes closed.

“It’s not waiting,” Dillion whispered. “It’s holding its breath.”

Dillion looked around. The bay window. The crooked stairwell. The stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a seahorse. She had grown up in this house. She had learned to ride a bike on the sidewalk out front. She had hidden in the basement closet during a tornado, her dad’s arm wrapped around her, telling her stories until the wind stopped.

“Original charm,” Dillion corrected. “These counters have seen nineteen Thanksgivings, two proposals, and one very regrettable attempt at making crème brûlée with a blowtorch. They’re seasoned.”