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My first impression was of a tall building laid down for a nap, with all its parts nestled together side-by-side The lawn in front seemed out of place, discoloured by spots I moved into the spare bedroom of my grandfather’s house and started my new teaching job at a local college They’d hired me to teach video game environment design, but I was still too young to own real furniture On free days I drove my grandfather to his haematology appointments He navigated our route and swore at the German nurse who drew his blood in German She laughed from her belly and called him a hick, because he spoke in a dialect, just like his parents, who came from a German-speaking village in the Ukraine In the mornings I made elaborate coffees while he rested at the kitchen table, cracking his knuckles He often spoke to his friends on the phone in a low, rhythmic voice I couldn’t follow I remember wiping down the red Formica counters and thinking that perhaps the lawn was diminished due to stress Then a pox of barren patches swept up from the street, and what green remained just withered and crisped   I looked online and certain companies can be hired to paint your grass the appropriate colour, which is the solution I would have entertained, had it been my lawn One day I walked around the side of the house and found the irrigation switch turned off and taped over with a big black X I recognised this intervention as my grandfather’s handiwork, perhaps a statement about the drought, a water conserving measure, or who knows what I wasn’t too surprised   So I went to work and flirted with the product designers They wore dark-rimmed glasses and were the best dressed of anyone on staff I mentioned the immaculately restored 1950s single-story home where I’d deposited my trash bags full of shoes One of them bought me three martinis, and though he hadn’t yet seen my grandfather’s house, he described its features: A simple floor plan sprawling out instead of up, an attached garage