41

Two houses in Florida share a back fence, yet the residents must drive more than seven miles to go from one house to the other. In 250 words or fewer, describe how this situation reflects both the most significant advances and the greatest challenges in urban planning over the past century.

It’s a quarter past midnight on Friday morning when I get home. Mister Fancy is sitting on the porch. I leave the front door open, but he doesn’t follow me inside. When I return with a bowl of milk, he gives me a dismissive look. If I could hear him speaking again, I imagine he would tell me to get my head in the game.

Rory is asleep beneath a blanket on the living room sofa, television on. I shake his shoulder gently to wake him. “You’re home,” he mumbles. The way he says it, I realize he was worried about me.

He sits up, making room for me on the couch. “Mom, I keep looking at that last text Caroline sent me. Don’t worry, Friend. All is well. It doesn’t sound like her, it’s not something she would say. Tonight, when I was rereading Martin in Space, I realized it’s a line from the book.”

“It is?”

He pulls the blanket around his shoulders. “At one point, Martin has dinner in Stockholm. One minute he’s eating potatoes with chives and sour cream, and the next minute he wakes up alone in an unfamiliar room. The room is all white and it has no door, no windows. There’s just a bed, a chair, and a desk with a note on it. The note says: Don’t worry, Friend. All is well.”

“Was Caroline reading Martin in Space too?”

“I gave it to her a couple of weeks ago. The book is so long, so strange, the line didn’t stick out until I read it again. What could it mean? Do you think Caroline was trying to send me a message? Is it some kind of code?”

I don’t know what it means. But it gives me chills. I put my arm around Rory’s shoulders. “We’ll find her.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” And I realize, as I say it, that it’s the first time I’ve made a promise to Rory I’m not sure I can keep.

A few hours later, over a breakfast of bacon and biscuits, Rory complains, “I’m so tired of the Wonder Test.”

“Just do your best.”

He looks up and gives me a look I can’t read. “Like my life depends on it?”

When I get home from dropping Rory off at school, our street is crowded with parked cars. I realize the culprit is an open house three doors down. A Mercedes is blocking my driveway, so I double park and walk up to the open house.

The grass is so green, the trees so manicured. Everything is almost too perfect. A woman with long black hair greets me at the front door. Her suit is well cut but revealing, more automobile expo than high-end real estate. I’m about to ask her if she knows who the owner of the Mercedes might be when she thrusts an iPad-size gadget into my hands. “Here’s your personal walk-through with Harris Ojai,” she says brightly. “You can pause it whenever you like and swipe left on any screen to call an attendant.” The screen is blank. I feel around, but I don’t find a button to turn it on.

“Oh, you’ve never used one of these?” she asks.

She leans over and speaks into the screen. “Begin the tour.” In response to her command, a hologram pops up from the screen, six inches high, full color. It’s a mini Harris Ojai, doing a little dance to some techno-beat music. The hologram declares exuberantly, “I’m Harris Ojai. Welcome to my open house!” His feet tap on dots that appear on the screen as he instructs: “Press here for a 3D layout of the house, press here for listing details, and press right here to send me a message!”

“Nothing better than having your own little Harris Ojai to walk you through!” the woman exclaims.

I wander through the foyer into the living space. The house is like a centerfold from Architectural Digest. Two dozen prospective buyers are walking around with their brokers. In the kitchen, a chef I recognize from local television is arranging appetizers on a platter. A young man in a catering uniform hands me a glass of champagne.

Beyond the dining area is a media room, where the 49ers’ old Super Bowl victory is playing, larger than life. Steve Young is nearly nine feet tall. As Dwight Clark makes the catch, the room comes alive on all sides.

I wander upstairs and then upstairs again, the champagne buzz heightening the sense that I’ve wandered into a dream, Alice in Real Estate Land. I’m not even sure why I’m here. It’s as if Harris Ojai willed me up the block and into the house. But I feel drawn to it, as if the secret of Caroline’s disappearance, the secret key that will unlock this town, might be somewhere in this mansion.

After seven bedrooms, a slew of marble bathrooms and cedar closets, I try to find my way out. A concrete staircase leads down to what Harris Ojai unapologetically calls the maid’s quarters. I escape to the backyard with mini Harris Ojai looking up at me and imploring, “Error! Don’t you want to see the wine cellar. Error!”

“Stop,” I command, but I can’t turn him off.

A chorus of elementary school children in matching green outfits sings “California Dreamin’” beside an enormous, glittering swimming pool. The real Harris Ojai materializes beside me. He’s wearing the same shiny suit as his hologram. “Error!” mini Harris repeats. “Don’t you want to visit the wine cellar?”

The real Harris Ojai takes the gadget and speaks to his doppelgänger as if to a disobedient child. “Go to sleep,” he says, and the hologram disappears.

He points to the children’s choir. “Listen to the way their voices echo off the marble inlays on the patio!” He cups a hand to his ear. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Yes, but I’m surprised they’re here on a school day.”

“Ah, it’s the unique synergy of our little town. What is good for Greenfield is good for the children. What is good for the children is good for the town. Strong property values lead to strong schools. Strong schools lead to strong property values. We are all in this together! Selling houses is my art, Lina. One day, you and I will make a masterpiece.”