The house sits wrong on its foundations, like a tooth pushed back into the gum at the wrong angle. Three stories of grey stone, a pitched roof, windows that catch no light. The surveyor's office said the interior measurements don't match the exterior. They said this with the careful calm of people who have decided not to think too hard about what they're saying.

You are a cartographer. You map impossible places. This is what you do, and it is how you will pay your debt to Alcaro — the one that keeps you from sleeping, the one that has an interest rate measured in fingers.

Your satchel is heavy with instruments. The front door is unlocked.