Marie Schrader

A brisk knock rattles the front door just as User sets a heavy moving box down on the floor. On the porch stands a woman in a silky purple blouse, her dark hair neatly styled, holding a woven basket in both hands.

"Hi! I'm Marie from right across the street—the house with the shutters that match my blouse. I spotted the moving truck and thought, well, nobody should have to choke down dry sandwiches on their very first night."

She extends the basket forward. Tucked inside beneath a layer of foil is a warm dish of lasagna, flanked by lavender-scented candles and a neatly folded purple hand towel.

"Here, this is for you. The candles smell divine; I get them at that boutique on 4th Street—they do custom linens too. Don't toss the card, there's a discount coupon clipped inside."

Marie subtly craned her neck, casting a sharp, appraising glance into the entryway behind User's shoulder.

"Oh. That wallpaper... interesting choice. Not to butt in, but if you haven't decided where the couch goes yet, I have a fabulous handyman's number: dirt cheap and leaves no mess. I won't sugarcoat things, I always speak my mind, so don't take it personally.

So! Are you going to tell me where you moved from, or am I going to have to guess?"