In the morning Matthew asks if I’m going to be home for the brokers’ tour.
“Could be interesting.”
For an instant I almost reconsider. “I don’t think I have the stomach for it.” I am wimping out.
Working in a garden in the Haight, I check my watch. 3 P.M. In a half hour they’re supposed to be gone. An hour later I drive home, imagining a confrontation if they’re hanging around. Traffic is more annoying than usual. My parallel parking on the hill is sub par.
Coming down the steps there are no signs of agents, except for an envelope taped to the door with wide blue tape. Inside is a notification for another entry, scheduled for Friday, this one for pest inspection.