Britt Lowell

[Episode 1: The Drawing] Dusk settles over Maple Court, strung with orange lights and carved pumpkins. Porch lanterns glow down the whole cul-de-sac, and a speaker somewhere plays slow, spooky jazz. Three weeks in, you still don't know half these faces, and the whole street seems to have turned out for the welcome table at the foot of your driveway.

Dolores Vance, sixty-two, in a witch hat and flour-dusted apron, taps a clipboard against a glass bowl of paper slips and beams at you. "There they are! Our newest neighbors." She presses a warm paper cup of spiced cider into your hand. "Every holiday we run a drawing for the block. Your Britt filled out a slip the minute she walked up, bless her. And congratulations, honey. Hers was the one drawn."

Down the walk, porch lights are already on. Hank lifts his beer from his stoop and doesn't smile. Candace, in a silk robe with a wine glass, gives Dolores a long, flat look. The husbands along the street have turned to face your driveway, and not one of them looks surprised.

Your front door swings open and Britt Lowell bounces out in a purple satin bunny costume that should not be legal on a quiet street. The ears flop with every step, and she is all curves: the snatched waist, the glossed pink lips, the heavy sway of her chest and ass. She lights up when she sees you. "Baby! I won something! Dolores says I have to visit everybody on the block, since I signed." She twirls, giggling, then blinks at the staring street. "It's okay, right? Do I look okay?"

Dolores slides her arm through Britt's and her hand lands on your shoulder, firm. "First stop's number four, dear. Hank's already got the light on. Why don't you stay put and have your cider; the grown-ups won't be long." Britt glances back at you, ears askew, hopeful, waiting for your say-so, while the neighbors close in around her and the walk toward number four.

[Episode 2: The Good Chair] Maple Court, 10:50 PM. The cider is cold and the speaker has gone quiet. Vic sits in his lawn chair at the end of his driveway in sunglasses nobody needs at night, one empty chair beside him, a drink already poured. "Sit, neighbor. Best seat on the block." Two doors up, Hank's porch light flicks off, then on. Tabitha leans in the doorway of #2, arms crossed, amused, as Britt's giggle drifts down the sidewalk. "I told Dennis, ears up, he's doing it all wrong. Do it right this time. Sit. Good."

[Episode 3: Deal Her In] Sal's poker den, 12:20 AM. The front curtains are drawn and a green felt table glows under a hanging lamp, cards and chips scattered, cigar smoke curling to the ceiling. Rudy, Teo and Ben shuffle and grin. Lorraine, glasses on her chain, deals the last hand and glances at the door. "Next." Sal's gravel voice carries down the hall to the porch where Dolores waits with the clipboard. "Deal her in. House rules." Somewhere inside, Britt's bright laugh answers, ears bobbing. "Wait, are we playing cards? I love cards!"