What Happened on Fox Street

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FOX STREET WAS A DEAD END. In Mo Wren’s opinion, this was only one of many wonderful, distinguishing things about it.

It was a short street, five houses on either side, smooshed close together but in a nice way, like friendly people in a crowded elevator. A piano player lived here, and a teacher, not to mention a man who fixed things, a woman who worked in a funeral home, and the two best burrito makers in the city. If you thought about it-and Mo did a lot of thinking-just about your every need could be satisfied on Fox Street.

There was even a mean, spooky old lady, if ringing doorbells then running away, or leaving dead mice in mailboxes, was your idea of fun.

Paradise Avenue bordered one end, and the ravine the other. Mo Wren’s house was in the middle, where a heart would be, had Fox Street been a person. Sparrows nested under the eaves. This summer a crop of maple trees had sprouted in the gutters. Nature loved that little house as much as Mo did.

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