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Abstract

Exploration, it appears, is a family trait. I can recall the feeling of Mama and Daddy’s hands holding my tiny ones as they guided me into partially-built houses with for-sale signs poking out of the front lawns. At five years old, I could march confidently into any framed structure, swiftly identify the unfinished rooms, and definitively pronounce my opinion of the floorplan. Over the course of the next seven years, looking for the property of our dreams became as much a hobby as a necessity. Although we’d nearly fallen through floors in fixer-uppers, harmlessly trespassed in neighborhoods of new construction, and once been entirely unnerved by a basement full of peculiar painted people, nothing could have quite prepared us for the fiasco at Jack’s Creek Polo Club.

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