.././

A stake with a placard in the grass marks the street address for the empty lot. The half-acre is only empty if one doesn't consider a natural break in the line of old houses along the street to be worthy of counting. Trees, grass, brush, and fallen branches offer somewhere for wildlife to avoid cars and dogs.

"Am I the only one not seeing a house here?" a stoned Chad says.

"I see a house for the woodland creatures," an equally stoned Bexley says.

A garbage truck drives by, sending a cloud of dust onto the sidewalk where the three stand. Zandra watches the truck barrel down the street toward a perpendicular intersection a few blocks down.

"Did this guy in the van get the address wrong?" Bexley says.

"No," Zandra says.

"Huh?"

"Silence, child. I'm getting a vision," Zandra says. She raises a finger to her lips like a shushing librarian.

Zandra looks up and down the street. Unlike "grandma's house," the rot of economic decay hasn't made a visible imprint on the houses. It's not a "nice" neighborhood, but it isn't a rough one, either. In the sun of midday, Zandra spots vehicles parked in most of the driveways. Garbage bins line the ends of the driveways.

What day of the week is it? Must be a weekday, right? It's a garbage day. People are at work. Or not, given the economy in Stevens Point. Anyway, there are still cars and trucks and SUVs in driveways. Maybe some people are at home. They can see us, standing here like the garbage bins. I don't like being exposed like this.

After waiting for a few cars to go by, Zandra steps off the sidewalk and onto the street. The street runs in a straight line, as it does for most of the core neighborhoods in Stevens Point, flanked by old-growth trees that lean over the pavement. Leaves conceal some of the road signs, so Zandra shuffles down the street for a better view.

"Hey, where're you going?" Chad says, but Zandra doesn't bother to explain.

I'm looking for something. I hope it's there.

Not seeing what she's expecting, Zandra turns around after half a block and walks the other way on the street. She passes Chad and Bexley, keeping her eyes focused on what the parting leaves reveal as she walks. Chad tries to join her, but Bexley holds him back.

"Let her work. This is real psychic stuff," Bexley says to Chad.

Yes. Let me work.

After another half-block walk, Zandra finally spots what she's looking for: a yellow road sign with the words "Dead End" printed in bold, black letters. It marks an intersection with the street Zandra's on. The dead-end street winds into a curve that's draped with even more old-growth trees. There aren't any houses from what Zandra can see, but she needs a better look.

My ankle's killing me, but I don't feel like going back to get the Two Stooges.

Zandra starts down the dead-end street. She keeps to the inside of the curve and close to the trees. There isn't a sidewalk down this stretch, so she shuffles through the grass next to the shoulder. Rounding the curve, Zandra ducks behind the thickest tree trunk she can find and slips half an eyeball around the bark. The street terminates at a cul-de-sac with a single house. The house is a rambler with an attached garage. No vehicles rest in the short driveway.

This is it. This is where she lives. The man in the van's concubine. I'm sure of it.

Zandra wobbles away from the tree and returns to Chad and Bexley on the sidewalk by the empty lot.

"She's down there," Zandra says. She points off toward the dead-end street, out of view.

"Over there? That's not even close to where that freak in the van told you," Chad says. "You sure about this, Zandra?"

I'm sure, Chad. It's not hard to figure out why, but I wouldn't expect you to know. You weren't in the van.

Discretion is key when it comes to the man in the van, whoever he happens to be. It's the only thing I really know about him, but it's important, because there's no way someone that cautious would just hand me over the street address of his concubine/mistress/side piece/whatever we're calling this relationship. He likely assumed—correctly—that we'd roll up to that exact address. That's not discreet.

No, it makes more sense that he'd direct us somewhere nearby that appears wrong on the surface. An empty lot is perfect. It keys me into there being something wrong. It's like he challenged me to look around. So I did.

What I saw were cars parked in driveways. It's not uncommon at all for a house with a garage to keep vehicles in the driveway, since most of the garages in Stevens Point—and the Midwest generally—are stacked to the rafters with shit, because people love to buy shit.

None of the houses with vehicles in the driveway could possibly be the correct location. Once again, with discretion as the common denominator, a vehicle with a visible license plate is too easy to identify.

Sure, there were a few houses along the street without cars parked in the driveway, but the neighbors are too close. Too easy to spot people coming in and out. On top of that, the street is busy. It's perpendicular to other busy streets.

No, what I needed to find was a street someone would only go down if they knew where they were going. Somewhere intentional. Somewhere like a dead end.

And sure enough, I found one. It's perfect. A lonely house at a cul-de-sac on the far end of a curve with lots of tree cover. It's so intentional, I'm almost positive the man in the van purchased or rented the house specifically for this woman to live in. Adds some vinegar to that sting from the cheating.

The man in the van assumed that I'd figure all this out, and he was correct, because he's smart enough to know that I'm smart enough.

Lay off the hard drugs, kids, and you, too, can pull this stuff out of thin air.

Zandra celebrates with a cigarette she bums off Bexley. It tastes like smoking an old sock.

"So what do we do now?" Chad says.

"We get off the sidewalk and into the woods outside her house. Then we watch and we wait," Zandra says.

"Should I have brought binoculars?"

"Do you have some?"

"Yeah, back at grandma's house, but I figured we didn't need them."

"Why?"

"Just thought your third eye could see more," Chad says.

That's fine. Maybe it can.

The first step is to figure out her name. The mailbox should have some clues. It's straightforward enough. No one is so discreet that they can avoid the United States Postal Service.

As it turns out, that is exactly the case.

From inside brush and behind a thick tree several yards into the woods, both out of and within view of the house at the cul-de-sac, Zandra can't spot a mailbox. Neither can Bexley. Chad, with glasses thick as pancakes, can't see much anyway, but he confirms there's no mailbox.

Well, fuck. She must use a PO Box for mail. Didn't think of that.

Chad is thinking of something else. "I'm hungry. How long is this going to take?"

"Quiet," Zandra says as she continues surveying the house. It's peculiar in how unpeculiar it is, at least at first glance. Potted plants flank the front door tucked into the small porch. A short, asphalt driveway connects the attached garage to the cul-de-sac. Sconces line the garage and porch. The small front yard, crowded by stubby cherry trees, contains a single flower bed.

It seems normal enough if you weren't looking closely. It's anything but, though. Look again.

The potted plants by the door are chrysanthemums. They're called "mums" for short around here, and you only see them on porches in the Midwest in the fall. It's still summer. They're covered in shade by the porch. Mums need sun, but these look healthy. They could only be fakes.

The same goes for the bullshit flower bed in the front yard. Lots of blooms and not a weed in sight. Why is that? Could it have something to do with how perfectly flat the soil is? It's almost like there's a thin layer of dirt over a foam block, with fake flowers tacked into the foam. How convenient. You don't need to go outside the house to pull weeds and risk getting spotted. The blooms all face toward the cul-de-sac for that picture-perfect look, too.

And how about that driveway? It's an asphalt driveway, the same as thousands of other driveways in Stevens Point. There's one important difference between this one and all the others, though. This one doesn't show any signs of cracks or separation, despite it discoloring from black to darkish-gray in a gradient that matches the path of the sunlight. You can tell the age of asphalt by how much it's faded. What does this mean? It means this is a minor miracle, given the expansion and contraction caused by extreme temperature changes in any given Wisconsin year. And that must mean this driveway doesn't get much traffic. That makes sense if this is just some fuck stop for the man in the van with a concubine convinced to stay put.

Therefore, the odds of her being home are good.

Zandra cranks her neck around the trunk of the tree for a better look while Chad whispers his hungry complaints.

So where is she? There isn't a window anywhere on the garage door or the front of the house. There's a tall, narrow window next to the front door, but it's frosted over. The front door probably doesn't get much use anyway. The attached garage provides all the privacy you'd need.

"Are any of these plants are edible?" Chad says quietly. He tugs a leaf loose from the brush. "Any berries around here or some shit?"

"Only one way to find out," Bexley says. "I mean, what does edible mean, anyway? This is Wisconsin. Nothing could be that bad for you."

Zandra sighs. "Don't eat the plants, kids."

Now let's assume the other person—the person the concubine is cheating with—the irony is going to give me a fucking aneurysm—let's assume this other person is held to an even higher standard of discretion. It's discretion squared, because they don't want the man in the van to know, on top of everything else. If I was that person, would I go into the house the same way as everyone else? Or would I choose a different route, just in case?

Zandra scans the grass on either side of the driveway.

I sure as fuck wouldn't park in the garage. I could get boxed in. No, I'd probably park somewhere a few blocks away and then walk in. I'd probably do it the same way every time if it worked well the first time I did it, too. People are like that. They'll stick to patterns that work, even when they're trying not to make themselves obvious.

That's when Zandra spots it: a matted trail of grass, barely perceptible, running from the cul-de-sac alongside the driveway and across the front yard toward the backside of the house.

Got it.

"How long until it's dark?" Zandra says.

"I dunno. Four? Five hours?" Bexley says.

"Let's go home and get something to eat," Zandra says, much to Chad's relief. "We'll come back at dusk."

"What's a dusk?" Chad says.

"When it starts to get dark, stupid," Bexley says.

They retrace their steps back to "grandma's house." Zandra's too distracted to notice her throbbing ankle. She fidgets with the packet in her pocket more in thought than temptation.

Tonight, we'll wait in that empty lot and watch for someone to park and start walking toward the dead end. Hopefully, they show up. If not, we can always try again, but we don't have much time to work with.

One person shows up when Zandra, Chad, and Bexley arrive back at "grandma's house." It's Choke-You-Ray. He waits outside the front door with his chain and a toothless sneer.

"One of you fuckth picked my pocket," Ray says and slaps the chain against the side of the house. A chunk of siding falls loose.

Zandra coughs into her sleeve.

Oh, shit.