"So we're on the same page, right?" says Katie. She picks up and puts down dusty and broken items from where they were dumped, seemingly at random: a bronze candlestick, a plaster bust of Elvis, a plastic toy drum trimmed in chrome, a cheap ceramic angel like my grandmother owned back when she was alive, half a badly made china pattern. Everything piled on top of everything else, scattered across shelves and thrown under furniture, or on top of other pieces of junk, stacked all the way to the ceiling.
"This is basically a hoarder with business license," she finishes.
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