Next to last.

Went home for my birthday. Came back. Two cats had escaped. Heard of a job opening I honestly *want*. Come back home from getting the preliminary information on that and guess what. The Plateros are moving out. Tonight.

That leaves the little old lady two doors down and me. She's moving out next week. I'm going to be the last person living in this place.

End of an era. The Plateros go way back, as did Helen. There's 60 years of history here and I'm the last to live here in the shadows of this shell of a building that was once a trading post, a jewelry factory, a military contract shop, a textile factory.

They just drove out, under a full moon, with their final possessions packed into the Chevrolet Lumina that's owned by the son who works for Chevron.

They're gone.

I have no neighbours.