Norman went to see the progress on the House, PINing into that world's Grand Central and taking a cab from there.
The grounds were a mess, everything torn up and ground into mud by the machinery of the contracters. The listing front porch had been torn away, leaving a gaping wound of the entrance. He stepped on the plastic crate front step, up and in. The men working inside, evaluating the age-riddled floor for rot, looked up at him, recognized him as nothing more than The Owner, and went back to work.
He wandered through the rooms of the first floor. So this would be his parlor, this his kitchen, this his study. The house would be beautiful again, classic proportions and polished hardwoods, the latest in technology hidden away behind hundred-year-old panelling. He smiled, picturing Sophia growing up here, her hair bright against the dignified decor.
Who are you kidding, Dad?