The house was small and cheap, and, like an idiot, he didn’t pay attention to much else about it. He found it, bought it, and moved in early that summer. There were thick willows lining his back fence, so he didn’t notice what was hidden behind them. The rest of the neighborhood seemed quiet, being a dead-end street without much traffic. He didn’t own all that much furniture, or anything else for that matter, so he was settled in quickly. He didn’t discover the problem until the Monday after Labor Day. 

“441B North to X-ray,” Mr. McKee called out, hanging up the phone and turning to us who were sitting around, a bit cramped in the office/mailroom that was our base. It was a slow morning so most of us were there. Mr. McKee was great, a career Army noncom, retired after decades serving. Among ourselves, we called him Sarge. He was infallibly fair, almost unflappable, and when he did get frustrated, he was careful not to direct it at anyone (in the room, anyway) and came up with some creative, colorful, expressions to express his displeasure that were always acceptable in mixed company.