The wood was solid Douglas fir, three coats of paint deep, perfectly dry and sturdy beneath my hand.

A blue sedan turned onto the street, slowed by the mailbox, and rolled on toward the cul-de-sac.

I took the scrap of yellow cardstock out of my wallet, the old kitchen paint swatch I had kept from my house in Tucson, and held it against the white window frame.

The yellow matched the trim around the glass right down to its pale cream undertone.

I put the swatch back in my purse and walked back to the bus stop before the listing broker came back to lock the front gate.