Inside The Mountain. The old house is more neglected than I’d imagined, veranda hanging off the front, stairs
falling away with rot. I use a knee to test the wood and then pull myself up. No doorknob so I
push, palm flat on the peeling paint. The door opens enough to get a shoulder in and becomes
wedged. Edging in sideways, plastic crinkles under my foot. The air is solid. With the door
closed behind me there is just enough room to stand. The weight of the hoard presses down
on me and I see no path through the garbage: bags, boxes, paper and muck.
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