"Just take a look out there," Candy said.

Melissa didn't bother, but that was only because she knew the scene outside the window all too well. Beyond the grimy glass was the family's chaotic backyard: the shin-high grass browned by the heat wave that had come unexpectedly in the middle of May, the inflatable pool they'd bought the previous summer and had never deflated and stowed away, now a dirty circle of red-and-white plastic at the far end of the yard. Beyond the collapsed pool was the broken fence. And beyond the fence? Another yard in not much better shape, and another, and another, until eventually the yards ended, and the streets too, and the empty grasslands began.

"I know what you want for your project," she said.

"Oh?" said Candy, going to the fridge and taking out a soda. "What do I want?"

"You want something weird ," Melissa said, putting the meat into the baking tin and thumbing it down. "You've got a little morbid streak in you, just like your grandma Frances. She used to go to the funerals of complete strangers—"

"She did not," Candy said with a laugh.

"She did. I swear. She loved anything like that. You get it from her. You certainly don't get it from me or your dad."

"Oh well, that really makes me feel welcome."

"You know what I mean," Candy's mother protested.

"So you don't think Chickentown is boring?" Candy said.

"There are worse places, believe me," Melissa said. "At least it's got a bit of history…"

"Not much of one. Not according to the books I looked at," Candy said.

"You know who you should talk to?" Melissa said.

"Who?"

"Norma Lipnik. You remember Norma? She and I used to work at the Comfort Tree Hotel together?"