Catskill led them through the streets until she found her house. The top floor had some large holes in it, but the ground floor looked like the soundest thing in Mystic. The front door had been repaired, if crudely, sometime recently (a few weeks ago, to be precise), the walls had been reinforced, the floor was mostly clear of snow and plants, a cabinet was standing in the corner, and a pile of wood was stacked by the fireplace. But all the other furniture had been pushed aside, most of it falling apart, none of the windows had glass in them, and the walls were bare. It was shelter, but it wasn’t a home.