House didn’t like the stories. Mink didn’t care. Seemed she had a new story to tell about it every morning while we waited for the big yellow bus to pick us up and take us to school. That’s how I got to know Mink. She lived two blocks away and walked by my house every morning on her way to the bus stop. Sometimes she’d come by early and ring the doorbell. My momma would let her inside and treat her to a bowl of cereal or a couple of hardboiled eggs. “Lord knows, that poor girl’s not gettin’ near enough to eat,” Momma used to say. “And her mother’s working day and night to make ends meet. But the worst part of it is that she has to live in that house.” One morning I asked Momma what was wrong with Mink’s house. “It’s just a big, creepy house,” she said. “And it’s probably cold and drafty too.” Momma shoved a brown paper lunch bag into my hands and shooshed me out the door. “Now you get to the bus stop or you’ll be late.” Seemed to me that Momma knew something about Mink’s house and di