Every every like, chapter or story, whatever, has its own name. The house on mongo street is ours. And we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people downstairs,. And there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we thought we'd get a and it is. It is small and red, with tight steps in front and windows so small you they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places, and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in. There is no front yard, only four little elms the city planted by the curb