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“Who the hell are you?” the man asked

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“He said a bad word,” seven-year-old Alicia announced in a stage whisper.

“Hell isn’t a bad word,” Gina assured her. Alicia didn’t have to know how often her aunt uttered words a lot worse than hell. “It’s just the name of a place.”

“A bad place.”

“We can turn that bad word right back on him, okay?” Gina stared boldly at the man and said, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Gina wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the invasion or only for his language. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Obviously.” If he could be diplomatic, so could she. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re in the wrong unit.”

“Six-fourteen,” he said, glancing at the open door, on which the number appeared. He turned back to Gina and lifted his hand so she could see the key. “This is how we got in here.”

There’s obviously been a mistake, she thought, her brain scrambling to figure out just how serious it was and how she was going to get these strangers out of the unit. “Okay—this is a time-share. We’ve got a key. You’ve got a key. My guess is someone’s here the wrong week.” You, she wanted to say. You’re here the wrong week.

“We’re here the week of July 19,” the man said calmly.

“Um, no.” Gina smiled. “That’s our week…. And we’re not leaving.”

Right Place, Wrong Time

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