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hanging from a beam flashed on and off, flickered orange, and then stayed a steady, bright yellow. Sheila was a generator, and probably the world’s largest.
    He motioned me outside the barn, leaving the door open. “Always leave this door open when Sheila’s percolating,” he said, wiping more grease on his pants. “The fumes can get bad. I rigged Sheila to work up to twelve hours a day on a single gallon of gas.”
    â€œWow,” I said, though at the time I didn’t know why. Now, I know. Mr. Wilson’s invention, while huge, is incredibly efficient. He should work for NASA.
    We walked toward the house. “Sheila runs your lights, stove, fridge, and water pump.”
    â€œIs there a washer and dryer?”
    â€œNot yet. My wife, Jenny, God rest her soul, she liked to use the Laundromat over on four sixty, or she’d scrub ‘em up in the pond.”
    That wasn’t going to happen. The pond had greenish water, and I don’t look good in green. “No problem.” And it hasn’t been a problem. Mama has a nice washer and dryer.
    â€œLet me show you Jenny’s dollhouse.” We paused at the door. “You married?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œYou got a boyfriend?”
    â€œNo,” I said, and I didn’t lie. I didn’t have
a
boyfriend. Besides, country folks might not understand a concept like friends with benefits.
    â€œA cute gal like you doesn’t have a boyfriend?”
    I had to tell him something. “I have a few friends.”
    â€œHmm. Not ready to settle down yet, huh?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCity girls are like that.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œJenny was a country girl.” He smiled. “Hmm.” He wiggled the doorknob. “I’ll get you some locks, city girl.” He pushed the door, and it swung easily on its hinges. “Come on in.”
    I expected must, mildew, and decay. I expected bats to swoop down, critters to scurry, and cobwebs to block my path. I expected a nest of mice to look up, smile at me, and say, “How ya do in’?” But Jenny’s dollhouse was immaculate and smelled like pine, as if someone had sealed it with Saran Wrap.
    Directly in front of me were shiny wooden stairs rising to a landing before continuing to rise to the left. I stood on a sparkling red-and-brown print linoleum floor. To the left of the stairs, four high-backed chairs surrounded a rough-hewn oak table shellacked to a glassy shine. The rest of the ground floor, it seemed, was the kitchen.
    â€œBig, ain’t it? Jenny loved to cook.” He rubbed his stomach for effect. “I used to be a bit larger. Jenny could cook all day, and I could eat her cooking all night. Storage room’s behind that door there. Bedrooms, bath, and sitting room are upstairs. Do you like to cook?”
    â€œYes.” And I do more cooking in the kitchen than in the bedroom. And trust me, that oak table is sturdy enough for two people to, um, entertain each other on.
    He showed me the little four-burner electric stove, the oak cabinets that needed refinishing, the skinny but adequate “icebox,” and the shiny sink and the plumbing underneath. Every cabinet contained pots, pans, and glasses, and each drawer bulged with silverware andother cooking utensils. The ad didn’t say it was a completely furnished cottage. I have saved so much money because of that.
    â€œI did everything myself,” he said. “And I passed all the inspections the first time. You got a microwave?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œJust as well. It ain’t cooking at all, you ask me, and the electric couldn’t handle it, anyway.” He opened the storage room door and reached into the darkness, grabbing and pulling a string.
    â€œLet there be light,” I said.
    He turned to me sharply. “Are you a religious gal?”
    â€œI pray a lot.” And I do. Hell, it can’t hurt, right? Izzie says I