What’s Up, Doc?

Coyote’s landlord pulled himself up from the crawl space.

“It’s pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad.“

They stood in the bedroom, cardboard boxes, plastic containers and milk crates filled with clothes, blankets, books, games, things they’d collected, and put aside, but weren’t ready to get rid of just yet, piled up against the walls, three high.

“This is going to be inconvenient.”

“How inconvenient?”

“Pretty inconvenient.”

The landlord snapped his little tool bag closed. Coyote thought it looked like what doctors carried around in Rockwell illustrations. He didn’t like the connection.

“I’ll get back to you,” the landlord said. “Soon.”

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