Dallas had stripped the wallpaper, for one, but he didn’t do a good job of it. Still little ribbons and swathes of the yellow flowers hanging on.

I walked through the corridors like I was observing a museum. Here were the family portraits, here was the chimney full of spiderwebs, and here was our kitchen sink we bathed the newborn pups last year.

I traced my fingers on the rust lining the sink. Turned the spigot and no water came out. And that was when I really thought I’d cry. But I couldn’t do it in front of him.

“Time we get going,” Dallas said from the kitchen entrance.

He ashed his cigarette on the kitchen counter, leaving a dark burn in the wood. It didn’t matter anymore.