Friday Evening, March 3rd
“IZ?”
“We’re in here!” she called back.
Aslyn marched through the living room of the tiny house, into the kitchen.
Izzy and her dad Mark were both there. The new counter top for the sink area was in place. Mark was carefully running a bead of grout along the top of the back splash where it met the wall as his daughter followed along behind him, damp rag in hand, wiping at his stray grout marks.
“Izzy, you should have been there! Look! Look what I got us for tomorrow!” Aslyn held a sign tacked to a couple of feet of a wood strip in each hand.
Izzy scanned them both and mentally shuddered. One had a slogan she only half read. The woman’s hand flipping the bird was the focal point.
“Don’t worry, this one’s mine,” Aslyn said as she waved it a bit.
Mark turned
