She had said the place was a little run-down and could use some TLC. The former owners had walked away from it after no longer being able to afford the bills, and because Connie decided it was better to let someone fix it up rather than have it go to hell in a handbasket, she offered it to me at a monthly cost of two weeks’ pay at her husband’s grocery store. “I can’t go any lower than that,” she had said. “So, if you find you can’t afford that and the utilities—” “I’ll make it work,” I’d promised her, just happy to have somewhere to go. Somewhere to call mine. And now, looking at 1111
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