The next morning, Saturday, after receiving a Busy. Will call later text from Jack, I shambled down to breakfast, with a fitful night’s sleep having earned me the crazy bedhead that had my hair looking like dandelion fluff. Besides reliving my near fall into a muddy abyss, I had heard Leira crying off and on through the long night, so I understood the desperate slurps and full nasal inhalation with which my mom was ingesting her coffee.

“Oh, hon, did Leira keep you up, too?” she asked. “I know your room gets the worst of it, which brings me to this morning’s plans: we want to show you a house.”

Even if the lease on our rented property wasn’t about to expire, a move was overdue. My bedroom shared a razor-thin wall with Leira’s; last night was a good example of why that wasn’t such a perfect floor plan. And what had been an already cozy space for my mom and me had become a shoe box with the addition of Stanley, his gazillion books, rowing machine, and more sports equipment than I’d have figured for a pocket-protector type. With Leira finally home from the hospital and the pile-on effect of her carrier, high chair, rocker, and bazillion toys, the current situation possibly qualified us for a feature on A&E’s Hoarders.

“You found a place?” I asked. I had left the house-hunting trips to my mom and Stanley, opting, instead, to watch Leira and give them some alone time. Besides, I would be graduating in nine months and had always planned on an away-from-home college experience. My opinion wouldn’t matter for long.

“Maybe,” my mom said. “We’re going back for another walk-through today. It’s our favorite so far, and we both got . . . I don’t know . . . really good vibes, or something, from the place.”

As much as I wanted the 411 on the earth opening up over at Snjosson Farms, Jack’s text had delayed any news on that front for a while. I was not scheduled to work at the store, nor did I have any pressing schoolwork. And, heck, when my mathematics-minded mom threw around words like good vibes, I was in.

“When are you going?” I asked.

“How soon can you be ready?”

En route, I briefly explained the previous night’s scene at Jack’s farm, downplaying the danger we had been in. My mom simply thought it was odd. Stanley, on the other hand, was intrigued.

“How big did you say it was?” he asked.

“It was dark, but maybe a hundred feet. That’s what Lars estimated, anyway.”

“It’s unusual to have one so large.”

I was starting to hate words like unusual.

“I’ll make a few calls later today, see if there are any theories as to cause. Sinks are often due to human interference.”

I noticed we were just a few blocks away from Afi’s house, Penny’s, too, for that matter. “What street are we on?” I asked as Stanley’s car rounded a corner.

“Spruce,” he said, pulling to the curb in front of a large Victorian.

The name tinkled some familiar key, but my brain was too busy taking in a first impression. The house was big: two floors plus a third-story attic with dormer windows. As for the downside, it was painted a brazen shade of pink with scalloped white trim. I knew the painted ladies in San Francisco could get away with such girly colors, but in this neighborhood — this town — it stood out like a ball gown at a hoedown. And make that a frayed, tattered, and seen-better-days gown. Peeling paint gave the home an abandoned look, compounded by the weedy and overgrown lawn.

I stood on the small strip of grass between the curb and sidewalk, bug-eyeing the place.

“Now, don’t prejudge,” my mom said, taking my arm. “We know it’s a fixer-upper. And it would not remain pink.”

Stanley, who had Baby-Bjorned Leira to his chest, waited for us on the cracked and sagging driveway. “Wait till you see inside, Kat. She’s a beauty.”

A suit-clad woman, the real estate agent, met us on the front porch. “You’ve brought your daughters today, I see,” she said, extending her hand to me. “Margaret Simmons. Pleased to meet you.”

After gushing over Leira, Margaret ushered us into the wood-paneled foyer, where she figured I could do with a history lesson as well as a house tour.

“Built in 1904 in the Queen Anne style — though, of course, the original Queen Anne of England had died in the early 1700s.” I followed my private docent into the first room to our left. “This would have been called the parlor and was the formal space in which the family would have entertained visitors.”

It was a high-ceilinged, bay-front-windowed room that we’d call a living room but probably have very little use for. Next, I followed Margaret and her sensible heels into the room behind the parlor.

“The dining room,” she said. “Notice the lovely built-in corner cabinets and the separate butler’s pantry.”

They were nice, I supposed, if you had a bunch of patterned china to display. Or, say, a butler. Margaret’s all-business walk-through continued into the next room to the right of the dining room.

“The sitting room,” she said, “an informal space where the family would have spent the majority of their time. And, finally, the kitchen.”

I struggled to keep up as she stepped into the rearmost area, a separate and small-by-today’s-standards space.

“This would be one of our first projects,” my mom said, probably noticing my grimacelike reaction. “The walls between here, the dining room, and the sitting room aren’t load bearing. We could open it up to create a more modern flow.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” I said, running my hand across a cracked tile countertop.

“Stanley has always wanted to renovate an old house,” my mom said, using a strange, chipper-sounding voice.

“This place would be a wonderful challenge, then,” commission-based Margaret pointed out.

“Let’s have a look upstairs,” my mom said, heading back toward the staircase.

I trudged up the narrow steps.

The three upstairs bedrooms were OK, but as far as I could see I’d still share a wall with Leira, which, no fault of her own, would be an ongoing detriment to my beauty sleep.

“Has she seen the best part yet?” Stanley asked, catching up with us after tending to one of Leira’s exploding diapers.

“I was just about to mention it,” my mom said with a sly look on her face.

“What?” I asked.

“Follow me,” she said. “We were thinking this could function as your own private space.”

We ascended an even narrower staircase to the attic, where a now-we’re-talking renovation had already been undertaken. The smell of fresh paint permeated the U-shaped area. There were two dormer windows, new carpeting, a wall of built-in closets, and three separate spaces, which I was already mentally setting up as bedroom, office, and my own personal lounge. I might even call it a parlor to keep with the This Old House theme. I was sold before I even peeked into the shiny white bathroom.

“I love it,” I said. And I did.

Back downstairs, my mom and Stanley got into the nitty-gritty of an offer with Margaret. I stepped outside and started walking toward the car, thinking that with my little third-floor hideaway I could put up with a little reno dust, when, across the street, someone stepped out of the front door.

Was fate truly this cruel? Was I never to catch a break? Exiting the house — my soon-to-be neighbor — was none other than Marik, which meant Jinky wasn’t far behind. I tapped my toe irritably, and, yep, the door opened again and Jinky, flying her full-black colors, joined Marik.

“Katla.” Marik waved and headed over. “What are you doing here?” He came to an all-grins stop in front of me.

“My mom and her husband are putting an offer on this property,” I said.

“What? The gingerbread house?” Jinky asked, joining us.

“With any luck, it won’t look like a frosted cake for long.” My cheeks felt warm, as if I already self-associated with the place.

“What happened to you and Jack last night?” Marik asked.

I gave him a long, tight look. Despite Stanley’s opinion that sinks were usually man-made, I had a few theories of my own. And they all involved warnings of one kind or another.

“There was this . . . thing . . . that happened at his place. We took off to check it out.”

“The sinkhole?” Jinky asked.

“How did you know about that?”

“Penny called me. It’s all over the local news, and she wants to know if we can get some pictures for the paper.”

I pulled my phone out of my bag. I had two voicemails and three texts from Penny and one missed call from Jack. Per Jinky’s report, Penny was angling for access to the site. It took a back-and-forth volley of messages between Penny, Jack, and me before I had sorted out an impromptu field trip to the spot.

Marik was uncharacteristically quiet but hanging around like his participation was assumed, wanted even. Still reeling from last night’s narrow escape, I wasn’t so sure anymore about that keep-your-enemies-close theory. Because close meant access, as far as I was concerned. For the time being, I didn’t see any options. When Penny pulled to the curb to pick us up, I stood aside and watched him squeeze into the backseat.