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Tyrone was a narrow street only one car could creep down at a time, lined by monster Eucalyptus trees that blotted out most of the mid-day Sun. When the Santa Annas blew there'd be a confetti light show on the root-ripped asphalt. Trees doing shadow puppets made the street alive.

The houses were small apex framed pattern-punched variations on an already unimaginative theme: skinny front door, window to the living room on the left, red brick planter below. TV antennae sprouted from every roof like futuristic crucifixes. Some of the houses were painted white, some blue, but Eddy's was stucco. The skin of his house was diseased, peeling off like infected scabs, stuck somewhere in a tug-o-war between Summer and Winter. The shingles were rotting, splintering, falling off. Eddy didn't help any, frequently picking at the house when there was little else to do but fidget outside until the screaming inside stopped.