The man walks into my house. Tall and absurdly young, he has come to inspect my roof, and possibly fix it. My roof is over eighty years old and likely to be the only flat roof in Seattle.
Entries make me uneasy. I dislike the shift in speed induced by Earth's gravity, the subtle but recognizable odor of decay and the gust of freshened air that's puffed into the spacecraft to mask it.
My mother had hidden my Pink Floyd disk again. I didn't know where, but after searching the house I concluded that the disk must be outside, concealed beneath the snow, or across the fence, where the garage bins stood.