Three“Hello. Hello, in there. Anybody home?” Dorothy Nickerson's cheery voice echoes through a seemingly empty house. She steps inside the foyer and sets her luggage down, a nifty blue canvas case with a collage of stickers touting her travels from Maine to Spain, from Tangiers to “down under.”
“Where is everybody? It's 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning. Rise and shine, you lazy landlubbers. Old Dorothy's back,” she chimes, going from room to room. She jogs up the stairs, at once yelling “ouch” when her arthritic knee crackles. Peeking in each of the open bedroom doors, Dorothy concludes, “No Isaac. No Sally. No – Oh, David! Well, at least you're here.”
David's third-floor bedroom window in the century-old Nickerson family Victorian home gives him an unimpeded, almost aerial, view of the
