The house across the street from me is a mystery. I've been here a year and a half and never met or glimpsed my neighbors. It's the most ramshackle on the block—sky-blue paint faded to sick white, yard sparse and weedy, bars on the windows from another age. I've wondered. Of course I have.
The other day I heard a loud noise at midnight and jumped up from my bed. Peering through my blinds, I spied a man across the street in the mystery house, the garage door open like a wide sunny mouth and illuminating the inside. The space was filled with mannequins, standing shoulder to shoulder, peopled as a crowd. I understood why I had never seen that man before now. He has everything he needs in there.
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