Her instructions were ridiculous, yet, perhaps out of guilt he walked slowly to the pantry for a plastic bucket. The new owners -- who he was sure would refer to the property in sentences like, "We'll be down at The Farm this weekend," and "You both should join us at The Farm this fourth." -- would no doubt hire a battalion of cleaners to nearly gut the place before another army of hired helped carted them in on moving day.

The warm water ran down the faded paint under the glare of a single bulb, vulgar in an ugly shadeless lamp. He watched his ten foot shadow fold where the floor met the opposing wall, his giant silhouetted arms moving the sponge up and down, the suds from the dish liquid mixing with decades of nicotine leaching from the cracked and chipping plaster. - JV

Roy hadn't come around much the last few years. He didn't leave the bank until well after dark most days, and the twins always seemed to be catching something. But he knew no one had scrubbed the old house’s walls, let alone dusted them, since Godknowswhen.

He hadn't even nodded in assent to his mother's request, only met her gaze with blank eyes. She had smiled slightly, her lips creasing almost imperceptibly. -- RJ