Like seemingly everyone else living on the outskirts of Ely, Jake Monroe’s house was nearly engulfed in foliage. It was a small wooden construction featuring a disheveled, rotting front porch and a single shaded window visible from the front. What probably was once green paint had fought off too many rainy seasons (and since it was July and still raining, the raindrops had totaled quite a few) and had sunk into a mushy blend of faded lime and brown.
stillThe damp dirt path acting as a driveway struggled hopelessly in its effort to battle off legions of advancing conifers. The path had perhaps been tended to at some point during the most recent dry season, whatever year that might have been. Paul didn’t believe it was anytime within the current millennia.
The rental car sloshed thr
