Aaron pulls off on the side of the road, and I turn toward him in confusion. “What are you doing? Drive up there.” “I can’t,” he argues. “That sign says Private Property.” My jaw drops. “So what? It’s not like people actually live here.” “That’s exactly what private residence means, Sylvie.” “We came all this way.” “So? What would I tell them? They’re not going to let me in just because my great-great-grandfather once visited here in the summer and wrote his book on the typewriter.”
