Sunday, held open like a door no one walks through. The appraiser arrives at 11:40. The appraiser leaves. The house exhales into a shape we don't recognise. We drive around the block. We drive around the block again. The cloud cover is a ceiling someone installed overnight. Here is what a Sunday becomes when it belongs to a clipboard: a series of rooms you cannot enter, a series of hours you cannot use, a car idling in a cul-de-sac while someone else measures your kitchen in metres squared. The Fitbit says I've taken nine steps. The Fitbit is not wrong. By four o'clock we are allowed back in and the house smells like someone else's looking. We open windows. We close windows. We stand in the hallway like guests waiting to be told where to sit.