One driveway.
One car.
After my breathing begins to return to a steady pace, I make some hot cocoa. I open the package and the powder fills the air like a mushroom cloud. I sneeze. Just then, the landline starts to ring.
“Hello?” My voice is still breathy.
“Bless you,” a scratchy voice mutters, followed by a monotonous hum of a dead line.
Turn around, look behind you.
Four chairs.
Eighteen books.
One window.
Two cars.
Two cars.