You don’t break into places.
That’s what you tell yourself. But it was already broken – you’ll explain to the imaginary officer, who nonetheless shoos you off like a grumpy old caretaker… probably hates children. Or it’s for your own safety. Which it is, probably.
Industry housing – built for a boom and abandoned in the bust – row houses with the same frames but each distinguished by its particular state of guilt, like faces in a police line up. What are they not telling you, each with its particular combination of frowning porch, bruised panes, and ill-shaven courtyard? Mugshots.
Adjacent, a gutted apartment. You wander the halls like the ghost of a real estate agent, extolling the virtues of each suite to interested phantoms.
Take your time, have a look around… find the one that’s right for you!
It’ll do says a voice.