The driver killed the engine, and for a second, there was nothing but the sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond the cracked pavement. The house loomed ahead. Big. Sun-faded. A wraparound porch with mismatched lawn furniture. A flag that had seen better days hanging limp against a rusted pole.

A camera guy was already out of the car, walking backward, lens locked on you.

The front door swung open before you even got your bag out.

The driver handed you your duffel, already looking relieved to be leaving.