"The last tenant," the agent was saying, but Mrs. Kimble had already stopped listening. What was the point, after all, when the agent was speaking in codes, codes Mrs. Kimble was tired of deciphering? Earlier, the agent, who was half Mrs. Kimble's age and blonde—two strikes against her in Mrs. Kimble's book—had described the house as a charming Victorian with a thriving garden. This, after they had stepped out of the agent's car and started along the cobblestone walkway and Mrs. Kimble could see for herself that charming was code for small and in need of paint, and that thriving, apparently, was short for thriving and overrun with crab grass and dandelion and other unsightly weeds. Once inside the "charming Victorian," the agent had praised the "lived-in feel of the place." A little too lived in, dear, Mrs. Kimble thought to herself. Cupboards stacked with junk and rubbish. The foyer closet teeming with clothes. If it weren't for the thick layer of dust that covered everything, the house would seem lived in still even now. "Of course, you're probably more interested in the kitchen," the agent continued. "You simply won't believe how cozy and comfy it is." Indeed, seconds later, Mrs. Kimble had to agree: she did not believe it, unless cozy and comfy was code for "too small for more than one person to fit in at a time." It was while they were in the kitchen that Mrs. Kimble decided to stop listening to the agent, and the agent decided to talk about the last tenant. As such, they had not yet made it to the stairway, where two spokes were missing from the banister, or, a fortiori, to upstairs, where mouse droppings dotted the bedspread. They were in the kitchen, and Mrs. Kimble was wondering why the table there was still set for one, and was looking to see if there were any dishes in the sink, when she heard the word "disappeared."