A police officer stopped by during the rebuild after the flood and asked to look at the bones of my house.

“This is the most awesome layout I’ve seen,” he said.

“Do you want to hear the story behind it?”

“Tell me more.”

That’s when I knew I had him.

The story began with a flat tire, right outside a model home a few miles from here.

I asked if I could wait inside for roadside assistance.

As I looked around, the bones looked familiar. Exactly like my place. The walls were arranged differently, and the model had an open floor plan instead of our claustrophobic one. But it had to be the same container, with a few flourishes.

I asked what the model was called.

“Andover.”

BINGO! That was my model.

“Would you mind if I came back next week to take some photos?”

The model had been sold. It was closing the next day.

So I captured what I wanted with my phone, had the photos printed, and put them upstairs for safekeeping until I could figure out how to pull off a renovation.

That time came when my house took a gulp of water.

Six feet of water.

I showed the photos to Alfonso. He was the general contractor, but I was the architect with the blueprints—the photos.

“This is all I need,” he said.

If I’d waited in the car, none of this would have happened.

The thing is never the thing.