An historic advertising poster: gas station with garage, 1954. Weeds high amongst the cracked concrete of the forecourt where two pumps stand like trees, shingled in a rough bark of rust. Discolored paint on the overhang so faded and flaked its original tone is no longer discernible. Squirrels and rats, wasps and snakes reside in the restrooms, inspection pit, office.

Camera in hand, she stands slack-jawed and enthralled, the agency's car sitting door-ahinge on the shoulder of the tree-lined road behind her.

It's the toy garage from her childhood.

LIFE SIZED

She takes a whole roll of snapshots without noticing. Can't stop herself.

The photos have magnetic power. They draw the Daughter to the binders and force her to gaze at them several times a day.

The information sheets tell her everything she needs to know: abandoned since the late 70s, priced with only the slimmest padding of expectation. Beverley's officially handed it to Linda, a sour-mouthed, bespectacled mother of three who lacks the hearty handshake that clenches deals. Couldn't move a coffin at a funeral home, whispers Martha into her powder compact when she's sure Beverley can hear her loud and clear, maybe that's where her real vocations lies, who knows? The Daughter's insides stiffen. 

The sooner she quits this job the better.

"I know", sighs Linda when she notices the Daughter's compulsive behavior. "A complete write-off. The land itself we'd have a chance with, but with that eyesore sitting on it . . ." She shakes her head and purses her lips, making her mouth look even more sour and disapproving than it naturally does. "I wonder how much it would cost to rent a bulldozer and just flatten the thing. The owners are thinking of doing just that, and I hope they do. Otherwise, I'll never move it. Never."

Something lurches inside the Daughter. She starts breathing in fits and starts, like she's coming apart in waves.

The smell of coffee from the kitchenette, the sound of a ringing phone, the harsh explosions of laughter from the conference table, and the faint scent of her own perfume all suddenly mutate into living creatures. For a few seconds, she could stretch out a hand and stroke their warm bodies if she wanted.

"Everything alright, sweetie? You look like you've seen a ghost," says Linda, half-concerned, half-suspicious.

She has.

The Daughter lays in bed, staring at the dark ceiling above. From time to time, lights from passing cars glide across the the walls, arc downwards and slither under the door into the hallway. She is only vaguely aware of them. Her thoughts are weaving a tight-knit cloth of anxiety around the garage, back and forth, double looping over the probable idea of its destruction.

Demolished.

Gone.

When she was a child, the garage was beyond her grasp but still there tucked in its cardboard box and safe. Still waiting when she snuck away from the Mother and down its aisle to visit it. You're over-reacting, she tells herself. And grow up. And how old are you anyway? The answers come in her own childhood voice. No, I'm not. Can't. This many. And then the voice of the Mother like Iago's in the darkness oh, sweetheart, you'd be bored of it before you got it out of the box, bored of it, bored of it, bored of it. . .

She wants the garage so much she can taste it.

She turns on the light.

Five minutes later she is leaning over a piece of paper, furiously sketching. The weeds, the pumps, the boarded-up windows, the encroaching wilderness behind the oblong building. Every detail she can remember, can call up in her mind's eye, finds its way onto the paper. When she's finished, she brushes strands of hair out of her face and knows she's made her decision.

The garage isn't going to leave. She's going to take it down off the shelf and take it home with her.