Each little house was written for a specific person and then sent directly to them.
Their names appear before their pieces.
This story takes place at the end of the last century, at the dawn of everyone internet. Almost all phones are still dumb. You can’t take them far from their docks on the desks and counters.
We kissed and stalled. I looked through his hair out the windshield and across the small yard to his bedroom window, the light his dad had left on. “In a minute I’m going to be in there, by that light,” he said, “missing you.” I drummed the steering wheel and replied “Yeah, I think about that all the time, dropping people off and then they just, y’know, become little people in their little houses.” “Yeah.” “It’s totally scary.” For me nothing was ever really happening, it was all just wrapping up, especially this.