They met. You don’t lie, hit, or trick, she said. You don’t gamble, he said. Not at all like I’m used to, they thought. They married. Stood for the sham of wedding pic­tures, arranged with the nearly estranged to suggest ten­der­ness, trust. Hun­dreds of photos, to account for the first removed, to include the improved, the cur­rent­ly screwed, bio­log­i­cal, step, ex this, ex that. I need a drink, he said. Me, too, she whis­pered. When will this end? They built a house. Nothing broken, she said. A fresh start, he agreed. They fol­lowed the con­struc­tion closely, imag­ined in the devel­op­ing shell their babies, like pearls, and thought, our chil­dren will be happy. Have it better. Feel safe. The skele­ton smelled sweet and sharp: a forest after the ax. The walls went up, became smooth skins. Sturdy, he thought. Unbruised, she thought. The roof was a sleek head. This house looks safe, they said. Hidden and safe. Soon every room was piped and wired, ready to pump, flush, light, cool, warm. All ours, they believed. Fat of insu­la­tion, sinew of drywall, muscles of coun­ter­tops and floors. Safe and new. A small cabin. Past­less. Ghost­less. A pretty box. Tucked in the woods. This cache of hope. A trea­sure among the trees. They stepped into the foyer. They flicked on the lights. Stood in their house, red as a matador’s cape. Hes­i­tat­ed, hurt and blood­ied. Then they lugged in their shit. Hauled and shoved. Pulled and lifted. Until the house was filled with pos­ses­sions. Until the house was filled with the possessed.