Our hero wraps both hands around the mouthpiece and points the telephone receiver at the scanner, saying, "It's a code nine-eleven." And her secretary, Mona, shrugs and says, "So?" Helen Boyle snaps her fingers until her secretary looks in from the outer office. What she needs is a new cup of coffee and a seven-letter word for "poultry." She needs to hear what's happening on the police scanner. And this new owner on the phone is not what our hero, Helen Hoover Boyle, needs this morning. A couple of nights later, a baby starts to cry from inside the north wall of the master bedroom. Others are sure it's because they didn't tip the movers. Some new owners pretend a friend has done it as a joke. Then on the first morning they come downstairs, there it is, scratched in the white-oak floor: They'd measured rooms and told the movers where to set the couch and piano, hauled in everything they owned, and never really stopped to look at the living room floor. Not when the inspector showed them through it. Not the first time they toured the house. By Chuck Palahniuk Doubleday Copyright © 2002 Chuck PalahniukĪt first, the new owner pretends he never looked at the living room floor.
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