I’m in the house where everyone else is. I have no idea where this house is located, but I’ve been here so many times I could draw flawless blueprints of it. It’s a three-storey house, though I suspect it didn’t start out that way (I’m fairly certain that the house has grown in size as I have). What I know for sure is that the bottom level, the basement, is where most of the people are, because that’s where the party is. At the far end of the room, there’s a door that leads to the garage. When you open the garage door, there’s a very steep slope leading up and out to the street. When you get to the street, there are houses to the left and to the right but across the street there are no houses. There’s a sidewalk and there’s a short, white picket fence with ivy growing on it and on the other side of that fence is nothing, which is to say, there’s a very steep drop as though we’re in a canyon, but that part is always vague. Also, I couldn’t tell you what the houses to the left and to the right looked like. The part that has definition and detail is my house. Only it isn’t really my house. I never bought it, I don’t believe I inherited it, and I sure as hell didn’t build it, but it feels like it belongs to me. Back in the party room is everyone else. Everyone in my life is in here. Not everyone I’ve ever known, just the people currently in my life. There are very few people who’ve always been here. All the other people, the ones who used to be in my life, they’re in the house. I know they’re here, I can feel them. And when I go upstairs to the other rooms, to make a sandwich or watch TV, I run into them, and it’s so good to see them. There are others here, too. Their features aren’t clear to me because I haven’t met them yet. Beyond the party, nothing ever happens in this house. I love it here.