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Knock. Knock.

I open the door.

A man shares that he’s arrived to bush hog my grounds.

I tell him he must have the wrong address.

But he tells me my property is the one just beyond the cemetery. I do not tell him my previous property 2,000 miles away was also the one just beyond the cemetery.

He tells me this is the place he’s been told to look for. He tells me the property owner’s name may be James.

I tell him I am David Villalva.

He tells me his name is Wayne.

I tell him I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

We converse more words and he departs.

Knock. Knock.

I open the door.

A man and woman share they’re my new neighbors. They tell me they’re the Johnsons.

I tell them I am David Villalva. I do not tell them my previous neighbors 2,000 miles away were also the Johnsons.

They tell me they will be exploring the woods beyond my house. They tell me their drone went down between the trees.

I tell them I hope they find what they’re looking for.

We exchange more words and they depart.

Knock. Knock.

I open the door.

A man asks if I know who owns the property with the cave. He tells me the cave is along the ridge line.

I can’t tell if his belt buckle is supposed to be a “Z” or sideways “N”.

He tells me that he and a friend used to enter the cave as kids. He tells me his name is Parsons.

I tell him my name is David Villalva.

He tells me there are indian markings drawn onto the cave’s walls. He tells me you have to go through a medium sized hole to access the cave. He tells me a child could barely fit through the opening. He tells me his childhood friend once got stuck. He tells me that he pulled the friend’s belt to free him. 

He tells me that he previously knocked on another door where a man barely opened the door. He tells me that he thought the man’s yellow barking dog would take a piece out of him.

I can’t tell if he cares that my cream dog keeps barking throughout our conversation.

He tells me the other man slammed the door in his face.

I tell him I do not know who owns the property with the cave with the indian drawings on its walls. I tell him I will not be slamming the door in his face.

I tell him I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

We exchange more words and he departs.

Knock. Knock.

I open the door.

A teenage boy tells me that he’s arrived to pick up Maisy.

I tell him he has the wrong address.

He asks if my address is the one he’s looking for.

I tell him my address is not the one he’s looking for.

He asks me how to get to his desired address.

I tell him I am uncertain.

The teenage boy’s mother exits her vehicle. She speaks kind words about the view.

I tell her Maisy does not live at this address.

She tells me the address they’re looking for.

I tell them the positioning of my address along their path. I tell them I believe they will find what they’re looking for.

We exchange more words and they depart.

Knock. Knock.

I open the door.

A teenage boy stands there.

I tell myself this is the same young man looking for Maisy.

I wait to confirm what he is looking for.

He says, “Is she here?”

I tell myself to keep a straight face.

“Who?” I say.

“You know,” he says.

I keep a straight face. 

“I’m sorry, who are you looking for?” I say.

“Oh man, I mainly know her through her Snapchat name,” he says.

I can’t tell if I’m smiling or not.

He pulls his phone from his pocket.

“I think you have the wrong address,” I say.

“No. You’re playing. You’re playing,” he says.

I tell him I am not playing.

He makes a call.

“Do you have a brown house?” he says into the phone.

I can’t tell if he believes I am playing – because I have a brown house.

He shows me his phone which displays his desired address on Google Maps.

I tell him how to get to his destination.

We exchange more words and he departs.

I watch him depart my driveway as I watch the Johnsons enter their driveway.

I tell myself he better remember more than her Snapchat name before he meets her parents, the Johnsons.

I close the door.

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