My name is Elsie Mabel Fitzpatrick and I am eighty-one years old. I want it on the record that I don’t look eighty-one. Not because I’m particularly attractive or youthful-looking—on the contrary, I’ve seen hairless mole rats more attractive—but because if storybooks are anything to go by (and I, for one, believe they are), eighty-one-year-olds are frail, birdlike creatures with silver hair who call people “dear” and go inside the bank to speak to an “actual person” rather than use the much more convenient ATM. At six feet tall with broad shoulders and a sturdy backbone, no one would ever accuse me of being birdlike—unless the bird in question was an ostrich. My hair is reddish-gray, and I call people “dipshit” with far more regularity than “dear.” Most importantly, I adore the ATM. Who wouldn’t? I’m eighty-one years old, and I don’t want to spend the precious time I have left in a stuffy, air-conditioned room talking to a power-tripping branch manager called Barry through plexiglass.

I digress.

I’ve lived on Kenny Lane for close to sixty years. Kenny Lane is a peculiar little cobbled street on the periphery of central Melbourne, made up of the back doors of restaurants and half a dozen single-fronted terrace homes, each adorned with intricately tiled porches and wrought iron fences in varying states of disrepair. The tiny front gardens tell diverse stories: mine meticulously tended with blooming roses, the rest ranging from untamed beauty to sparse weed patches. Parking is limited to a single row along one side, and any nonresident who dares to park their vehicle in these public spots is destined to suffer the wrath of Mrs. Nguyen. (I’ve yet to see a person make this mistake twice.)