Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
When the bus dropped me three blocks from my house, I could already hear the diesel idle of a large engine. A yellow moving van was parked flush against the curb in front of my bungalow, its metal ramp extended down to the cracked concrete of the driveway.
Emily Morrison stood by the back of the truck, holding her daughter by the hand. Her face was pale, and she clutched her porcelain mug against her chest as if she were trying to keep herself warm in the midday heat.
“The bank called me two hours ago,” Emily said when I reached the sidewalk. “They said the wire from the insurance company is already in my account.”
“Eighty-eight thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Every cent,” she said. “They even refunded the closing fees that Benson charged me.”
One of the movers carried a wooden dining chair down the ramp, his boots squeaking against the metal. The chair looked small and vulnerable under the bright Florida sun.
“I wanted to be gone before you got here,” Emily said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I did not want to cause any more trouble.”
