Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I met her at the threshold, taking the bucket from her hand before she could step inside. My shoulder muscles were tight from a week of sleeping on a cheap hotel mattress, but the weight of the tools felt right in my grip.
“Did you get the wide scraper?” I asked.
Sarah nodded, pulling a blue plastic handle from her pocket. “The four-inch steel blade. If Chad used the cheap water-based adhesive, it should come off in long sheets.”
We walked into the living room, where the dark, purple-patterned wallpaper covered the far wall. Chad had put it up during his third week of staying here, masking the old plaster cracks with a heavy vinyl that smelled of chemical adhesive. He had even run the paper right over the electrical outlets, leaving ragged, hand-torn holes around the socket plates.
I touched the corner of the vinyl where it met the baseboard. The edge was already peeling, curled tight like a dried leaf.
