April 4, 2005:

Your great-grandmother's house. Old wood, dark, multistoried. Now it's a historical monument inside a civic park.

The dinner reservations are messed up. Your fault. You invited people without informing everyone. Now they have to wait.

You're in the shower when the voices arrive. You hadn't thought people were allowed in here. They're a family who once lived here too. Network professionals. The empty router boxes in the kitchen cupboards belong to them.

The new neighbor is a billionaire. He must be, to be allowed to live in that house. There's just your great-grandmother's house and that one, here in the park.