I signed the lease on a whim. The place was cheap for how big it was—a two-story in a quiet cul-de-sac, built in the ’70s, with wood paneling and shag carpet that somehow smelled like a combination of fresh vacuuming and stale cigarettes. The realtor kept saying “great bones, great bones this house's got,” and I kept thinking finally, somewhere I can actually just breathe.

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