![Bryant Literary Review](/assets/md5images/76f74d20b69b6d7141cdce6fd1c52f74.png)
Abstract
4782 Menson Avenue was a small place with a dead lawn. Past the brittle grass where toys lay scattered, the house stood with peeling pink paint and a roof missing several clay shingles. Jennifer checked the address in her notebook, entered through a creaking gate, and walked to the door.