Day three with a fever. Another day spent rocking aimlessly in my chair. I flip the radio on to fill the void of silence punctuated only by the soft, measured creaking of my seat.

　　& with the continued leaking of Hestinia into small towns like Hartstead. "I don`t even recognize my hometown anymore! It`s one thing to have new faces buying the homes here, it`s another thing entirely for developers to swoop in, buy the home and turn the land into a thirty plus home development. It`s putting the squeeze on the way of life the locals here have been enjoying for the last hundred years. Hartstead is a farmin` community first and foremost. We don`t need a strip mall." Meet Joseph Boggs, the leader of the ragtag collection of long-standing locals protesting the new shopping center. "My parents bought their farm over eighty years ago now. I raised my family on that farm, and I want to pass it down to my own son when the time comes."

　　I spent some time asking Joseph about his family and, more specifically, the son he`s chosen to inherit the farm. "He`s one of them work-from-home IT guys," Joseph tells me. "He`s gotten into that urban farming stuff. You know, maximizing resources of small spaces. We`ve been talking for the last few years about ways to modernize the way we do things on the farm right now." Things like non-GMO seeds, organic pesticides, vertical gardening, setting aside planting spaces with pollinator friendly plants, and water conservation- the things you might expect a farmer of the rising generation to care about with global warming and sustainable food concerns on the rise.

　　I asked Joseph about why he sees a strip mall as a threat to this dreamed of future. His answer surprised me. "I want to preserve just a small corner of the world away from the distractions and conveniences` of modern life for my children and their children. In this modern age, we are becoming too dependent on our instant gratification and consumeristic values, and we are forgetting important skills like how to grow your own food, be self-sufficient and self-sustaining. There is a deep satisfaction to be had in working with your hands and doing things for yourself. I want my grandchildren to develop the confidence that comes from knowing what they are capable of."

　　"This isn`t about preserving the town`s heritage for you?"

　　"Well, sure, if that`s the argument that you need to hear to convince you," Joseph laughs. "At the end of the day, I just want what`s best for my family. We are workin` on raising the fourth generation on that plot of land. So far, an hours trip to the nearest grocery store has taught us to be better planners, to think ahead and have emergency supplies available. Two hours to the nearest mall means we patch our old clothes and only shop for new ones when we actually need to. Out of sight, out of mind. We spend less money on frivolous things and don`t worry about bein` vain. Convenience makes you lazy or complacent, and consumerism shifts your priorities away from the things that really matter."

　　But Joseph represents the old guard currently phasing out of this town. The influx of younger families into the more suburban-style neighborhoods cropping up on former farmland welcome the new amenities. "Oh, I am so excited to have a grocery story right around the corner." That`s Marci Torres, a young mom of two elementary school-aged children who moved into Hartstead last year when soaring home and rent prices forced her to look for housing on the fringes of a manageable commute to work. "I can not tell you how many times my kids have come up to me right before bedtime to tell me that they need something specific for school the next day, and I just have to tell them, tough! I can`t do anything about it now.` So, yes, even just the grocery store will be a huge blessing."

　　And Marci isn`t the only one to think that&.

　　My mind wanders while the radio continues to chatter in the background. The "old guard". That`s what the news reporter called him& us& me&. I am seventy years old. My own small town being sucked into Hestinia`s many rings of suburbs is something I resist for far less noble reasons than Joseph from Hartstead. I just miss the way things were. Things were a lot simpler then- back when Raesport was actually a small town. Most people knew each other, and there was an inherent trust that came from knowing all of your neighbors. Parents knew which house their kids were playing at by where the pile of bicycles were. Before cell phones, I`d go outside and whistle for Thomas to come in for dinner. Every mom on our street had their own whistle. It was different times back then, and yet I cling to a piece of that history, wanting to believe that the Raesport I knew then still exists.

　　Now Raesport is considered a small satellite city to Hestinia; we`re no longer small enough to be a mere town. And soon there won`t hardly be any distinction between Raesport and Hestinia. It`ll all be the "greater Hestinia area". There are only a few of us "old guards" left here who remember the before the suburb days. Those of us with the health to reach our sixties and seventies have mostly moved on. The antiwar activists sought bigger platforms straight out of high school; I remember Don Martin making a big show of driving into Hestinia to join a protest where he burned his draft card. We were eighteen then. The spectacle made national television, and then the Vietnam war came to a close the next year. In a lot of ways, for the men that returned, their war had only just begun, and I still remember what I was doing when I got the news that Frank Jones lost his fight. I was washing a metal serving tray that got dropped on the floor and dented when Susan told me the news....

　　The early 70s was also an era when getting a college education was becoming normalized, and we lost many of our classmates to moving away for higher education, never to move back to Raesport. Various economic crises through the years have pushed other old-timers out of Raesport to look for new opportunities, leaving Raesport something akin to a ghost town for a while, and then my generation entering the golden years saw a particularly massive hemorrhage of my peers as retirement created flexibility to live near children and grandchildren or to downsize or snowbird in Arizona. Enter new transplants, developers, a progressive city council, and large corporations in more recent years, and Raesport`s population has exploded, while those of us that continue to linger are few and far between. No. Raesport is no longer the town I grew up in. Perhaps that is a factor contributing to my desire to see Soward`s mansion restored- a monument not just to the founding of the town or to my Fred, but to all of us who knew her as an integral piece of our home`s history.

　　I sigh and unbag the morning newspaper that has been sitting on the small table next to Sarah Atwood`s diaries since I collected it from the porch this morning. It unfurls in my lap, and I mindlessly flip to the back classified section where the local obituaries are published, such things feeling relevant after my musings about being a member of the "old guard". I often flip through the obituaries these days, just scanning for names I recognize. They show up occasionally, and I find a perverse pleasure in reading through the brief life synopsis to see how many of the anecdotes or inside jokes I can pick up on when they do. There isn`t anyone I recognize today.

　　Sigh&.

　　Sometimes, perhaps it`s morbid of me, I wonder what people will write in my obituary. I wonder who will be left that cares to read it. I wonder who, if anyone, will bother to write it. Or will I simply fade out unnoticed? With Fred already gone and Thomas&. There isn`t anyone to do that for me anymore. There is no one to survive me.

　　An odd turn of phrase, don`t you think? To "survive" someone. It suggests that when you die you live on in the people lingering after you. Either that, or your life was a burden that the people you`ve left behind only barely managed to tolerate. I think the former definition is the intended one, but it is something to contemplate, isn`t it? When I go, will I leave behind a legacy worth passing on or a legacy of trauma?The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　And once again I land on the purposes of this restoration project. Maybe it isn`t about history or Fred or a tribute to the remnants of the old guard of Raesport. Maybe this is really all about me and an undefined desire to leave a legacy that will "survive" me& a legacy my only child considers a burden not worth surviving.

　　I shudder and quickly set the stack of newspapers off to the side, letting them fall with a slapping sound on the floor. I don`t want to think about this anymore. I don`t want to think about death, and I really don`t want to think about Thomas. Nothing positive can come from dwelling on failure or the hurt that comes from the rejection of those you put the most investment into. I wasn`t a perfect parent, but I wasn`t an abusive one either. I did what I could to be supportive. I actively tried to be a good parent. And for what?!

　　No!

　　I won`t let myself get sucked into this downward spiral. Thomas made his choice, and&.

　　No.

　　I am making my choice right now, at this moment. I will think about something else. I will think about& something& something unrelated&.

　　I tune into my senses for inspiration, my ears picking up the familiar professionalism of a radio news report.

　　& received news of a joint Carlton and Raesport Police Department investigation into the murder of one Briley Knox, a twenty-three year old young woman known to most by her street name, Cindy. She was reported for violation of her parole three days ago by her parole officer when she missed a regularly scheduled meeting after a short stint in the Raesport penitentiary for prostitution. Her body was discovered strangled to death in a dumpster outside Carlton city`s halfway house where the missed meeting was to take place. A preliminary coroner`s report shows that Briley was about thirteen weeks pregnant. Police are looking for one Patrick Crow, the believed father of the unborn child, in connection with Briley`s death. Investigators are requesting public assistance in locating Patrick Crow and with any information relevant to the case. You can find the hotline number on our website&.

　　&

　　Sigh&.

　　&

　　I am at a loss for words& or even basic comprehension. Cindy, the prostitute from Raesport&. Thirteen weeks pregnant&. That would put the time of conception&. I scramble for my phone, flipping through the calendar to locate the appointment when Barry, the window guy, measured my windows and took down those fated boards. My stomach drops. She had to have gotten pregnant about that same time because "conception" happens a couple weeks into what is measured as a part of the pregnancy.

　　My phone is ringing. Well& I hit the call button. I didn`t really think this through, but when I hear that small click indicating a successful connection has been made, I immediately start spluttering.

　　"Officer Milton? I just heard on the radio&. Is it true?! Cindy, the little prostitute, the one we caught in my house, was found murdered?!"

　　"Whoa, slow down. Lottie?"

　　"Yes, who else would this be?!" I snap irritably. "Is it true?!"

　　A heavy sigh greets me on the other end of the line. "Yes, Lottie. Unfortunately, it`s true. We are buried up to our necks in this one."

　　"And the guy they- you are looking for? The Patrick what`s-his-face? Was he the guy she was with?! The radio said she was pregnant! You think he might have killed her?!"

　　Another heavy sigh. Officer Milton sounds tired. "Yes, Patrick Crow was the guy she was with. He`s the only guy we know of that she was intimate with at about the right time, and it`s conceivable that he is both the father of the child and the person who killed her."

　　"Why would he kill her?!"

　　"It happens a lot more frequently than I`d care to admit," Milton mutters. "Maybe she tried to blackmail him? Maybe he wasn`t too thrilled about getting caught with her? Maybe none of the above and it`s not him! The fact is, we don`t have a lot to go off of. I`m not supposed to tell you any of this, but I don`t see any harm as long as you promise to keep it to yourself?"

　　"Yes, of course."

　　"The killer wore gloves. No prints, no DNA. And the area all around the halfway house where she was found doesn`t have any sort of security cameras or anything to help us identify the killer. The lack of forensic evidence, witnesses, and cameras makes us think it was a premeditated crime."

　　"I see."

　　"Right. So we are looking for someone we know might have a motive. We are looking into some other leads and tips as well, but yeah. It`s a little extra chaotic right now."

　　"Oh, I`m sorry. I should probably let you go."

　　"It`s alright. Hey, Lottie, while I`ve got you on the horn, is there anything else about that night, any little detail you can think of, to add?"

　　"Um&. Did I tell you that Cindy and Patrick acted like that night wasn`t their first time together? I mean, from the way they were talking, it sounded like he was a& a regular."

　　"Hm. I don`t think you told us that. It certainly helps justify this manhunt we are pursuing," he hums to himself. "Anything else?"

　　"Uh, not really. I just remember Patrick telling Cindy that he didn`t want any extras` like talking beforehand. I got out of it that he wasn`t interested in any sort of emotional connection or anything. Is that helpful at all?"

　　"Well, it might help the profilers to reason out a potential motive or psych eval. Thanks, Lottie. I`ll pass that along. Anything else?"

　　"Sorry, Officer Milton, that`s everything."

　　"No, no. Don`t apologize, Lottie. Thanks for the insights. I guess I`ll let you know if and when we make some progress with this case."

　　"Thank you. That will put my mind at ease."

　　"Lottie, you`re not worried, are you?" I pick up a new note of concern and have to pause to consider the question.

　　"Maybe," I admit.

　　"What are you worried about?"

　　"Do you think Patrick Crow is the type of guy who would be vengeful against the person who caught him in the act?"

　　"You think he might try to come after you?!"

　　"It`s dumb, I know."

　　"Listen, Lottie, I doubt it. If Patrick is the guy who killed Cindy, he`s probably long gone by now. I don`t think you have anything to worry about in that regard."

　　"Ok. Thanks."

　　"Yeah. Hey, if you need anything-"

　　"Yes, thank you. Good-bye now."

　　"Bye."

　　I tap the end call button and lean back into my chair, not realizing before now just how rigidly I`ve been sitting in my seat. The radio is playing through a series of pre-recorded self-promotions between the featured stories and regularly scheduled segments, and I am left alone with my thoughts once again.

　　To answer Officer Milton`s question more thoroughly, yes, I am worried, but not so much about Patrick Crow as I am about&.

　　In less than half a year, two people with connections to this house have ended up dead under bizarre and suspicious circumstances. I`m not one to buy into ghost stories, but I have been reading a diary found locked away in the attic wall filled with an account of a young woman who was horribly mistreated and abused while she lived here&. And the auditory hallucinations&. And the fact that this fever started about the same time that Cindy went missing&.

　　Oh, gosh!

　　No.

　　No, no, no.

　　No.

　　That`s foolishness. That`s& that`s just coincidence&. That`s just...

　　& Or it`s a curse.