“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks. We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC. “It has good bones?” I suggest. “It’s got old bones,” he mutters. I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.” He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.” HumorSing Sweet NightingaleThe Dream War SagaHudson VincentHorace LawsonVictorian HousesHome Repair Book:Sing Sweet Nightingale Source: Sing Sweet Nightingale
“Horace’s eyes get wide, and he glances between me and the house. “Every time I think I got a grip on this crazy shit going on in your head, I realize I don’t know the half of it, do I?” My eyes tracing the red trim of the house, I shake my head. “Not even close.” InsanitySing Sweet NightingaleThe Dream War SagaHudson VincentHorace Lawson Book:Sing Sweet Nightingale Source: Sing Sweet Nightingale