It was the wrong house. When I lived there, it was the wrong house and it still is. The stairs are wrong, tilting sideways to spill inhabitants onto the split twisted sidewalk. The kitchen is wrong, the counter is the table, the fridge hides drugs. The bedroom is wrong, too many people. The bathroom is wrong, cold water only. Tiles are chipped and patched and cracked. Wrong. It was always the wrong house.
An appropriate prompt. Back in Chicago at this point.