“A brick pizza oven?” Wren said, aghast. “Sounds like a death trap to me.”
“We love the fenced-in yard. Don’t we, Ferdie?” Arthur cut her off, gave Ferdinand, whom Wren was carrying, a little chin scratch.
The agent smiled and continued.
“Did you just baby talk Ferdie?” Wren whispered.
“I’m just trying to look like a respectable, dog-loving suburban homeowner. It would be super awesome if you’d do the same. Speaking of which, would it have killed you to adopt a golden retriever like a normal person?”
They sped up, caught up with the Realtor, who spun around jovially to face them.
“So, what do you think?” she said.
“It’s stunning,” Arthur said. He truly didn’t get it, didn’t see how this all added up. Why was this place so, well, cheap? Dirt cheap compared to the competition. The mortgage would be tight, but the prequalification he got online said they could hypothetically afford it, and hypothetically was good enough for him. Even better if Linda Kellerman could live up to her name tag andGet Them a Great Deal—and how had it not been scooped up already? “We’d love to see the inside, obviously.”
The agent cocked her head, confused. “Not much to see,” she said. “But why not?”
Wren shot Arthur a look of concern, which he deflected with anIt’s all goodsmile. The inside was probably flawless as well. As crisp and bright as the photos, with Glade PlugIns pumping mouthwatering scents throughout. Just a formality to give it a once-over.
They looped back around to the front porch, climbed the wooden steps, and approached the door. Linda fiddled with the lockbox on the door handle and removed the key.
“Can I ask”—Arthur finally gave in—“what’s the deal with this place? The asking price is shockingly—”
The agent swung the door open, and Arthur immediately had his answer.
“Low.”
That’s because, he realized, there was no house. Just a beautiful exterior facade. The inside was completely empty, barren. Wooden boards framing out the spaces where, theoretically, there might one day be rooms. Raw subflooring where there should be planks of gorgeous hardwood. Exposed pipespoking out waiting to be attached to a toilet or farmhouse sink.
“Be still my heart,” Wren cooed. “Someone callCountry Living.”
The Realtor ignored her and read Arthur’s face.
“As you can see, bit of a fixer-upper. It was a new build and the previous owners ran out of money midway. But, gosh, can’t you just see the potential?”
Back in the car, Arthur waved and smiled as Linda backed out and drove away, then laid his head down on the steering wheel.
“Is it weird that I like it more now?” Wren joked. “Place is fucking metal. Like something out of theSawmovies.”
“Don’t even joke about those.”
He’d watched one with Wren begrudgingly, just the once, and had nightmares about it for weeks. And besides, he wasn’t in the mood. She reached over and rubbed his back.
“Hey, it’s OK. This one wasn’t meant to be.”
“I can’t believe the photos were all AI fakes.” He was fuming. Sure, it had said as much in the fine print at the very bottom of the listing, that the AI-generated interior photos were simply there to illustrate the home’s possibilities. But he felt duped, and furious.
“The upstairs bathroom having three toilets didn’t tip you off?”
“I just thought whoever built it really loved pooping.”
“We’ll keep looking,” she reassured him.
“There’s nothing else. They’re all like this. It’s either a shithole death trap or it costs half a million dollars.”
Wren didn’t have an answer for that one.
“I just feel stupid,” he said.
