Aunt Myrtle was very old now and lived alone. We hadn’t visited her in years. The elegant mansion on a hill that I remembered from my childhood was now in such shocking disrepair it looked as if it might collapse into a heap of rubble any minute. We opened the gate and it fell right off its hinges. The shudders on the windows were mostly gone, as were more than half the shingles on the roof. Aunt Myrtle herself was a mess, her long stringy hair was filthy, and she walked around in an ancient bathrobe looking like a ghost. “This house needs some work, Aunt Myrtle,” I said. “It’s the raccoons,” she explained. “They’re out to get me, taking the house apart board by board every night.” “But why would they do that?” I asked. told you they want me, they worship me, I’m their goddess, and they won’t stop until I come and live with them. There are hundreds of them “Hundreds? My god …” Naturally I couldn’t sleep that night. I tiptoed around the creaky old house peering out of the windows Then around 2 a.m. I thought I heard something. From the kitchen window I saw Aunt Myrtle crouched in the backyard holding a plate of food in one hand and stroking the back of a standing raccoon with the other. They looked like very good friends, indeed. And one is enough in this world.