{
  "name": "1114 Delaware Avenue — Evening",
  "enter_text": "Home. The porch light is on. Three weeks became two while you were being a liaison.",
  "music": 1,
  "strokes": [
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 0, "w": 160, "h": 168, "color": 8, "meaning": "Floor" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 0, "w": 160, "h": 60, "color": 0, "meaning": "Wall" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 58, "w": 160, "h": 3, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 61, "w": 160, "h": 107, "color": 8, "meaning": "Floor" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 12, "y": 10, "w": 34, "h": 26, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 16, "y": 14, "w": 26, "h": 18, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 104, "y": 8, "w": 44, "h": 34, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 108, "y": 12, "w": 36, "h": 26, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 124, "y": 12, "w": 3, "h": 26, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 108, "y": 23, "w": 36, "h": 3, "color": 15, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 96, "w": 160, "h": 1, "color": 0, "meaning": "None" } },
    { "Rect": { "x": 0, "y": 164, "w": 160, "h": 4, "color": 0, "meaning": "Wall" } }
  ],
  "spawn": [22, 148],
  "exits": [null, null, null, 3],
  "objects": [
    {
      "name": "floorboard",
      "sprite": "floorboard",
      "x": 76,
      "y": 142,
      "look": "The third board from the wall. It has not been lifted since 1958.  Nineteen tins under there, and the last one is dated the month Walter Prosky drew nine to fifteen for a thing you did.  You could not say why you stopped. Nobody has ever asked, so you have never had to find out. This week, for the first time in twenty-six years, somebody nearly asked.",
      "synonyms": "board floor plank third",
      "use_text": "You do not lift it.  You stand on it for a moment, the way you stand on any floor, and then you go and fill the kettle."
    },
    {
      "name": "son",
      "sprite": "teenson",
      "x": 108,
      "y": 132,
      "look": "Frank. Fifteen now, and tall the way a fence is tall, with an academy application form he sent away for himself, four years early, because you cannot apply at fifteen and he wanted time to get the form right.",
      "synonyms": "frank boy teenager kid",
      "points": 10,
      "sets_flag": "told_son",
      "use_text": "He asks what you did this week.  You tell him: you were a liaison. A federal bureau came to town hunting the best criminal this city ever produced, with fourteen agents, a plastic dome, and a telephone in a shoe, and they did not find him, and a woman with a folder found him in four years from an office with nothing but paper, and did not say so, and went home on the noon train.  Frank: Why didn't she say so?  You consider the question.  You tell him: because she understood something about him that the Bureau never did.  Frank: What?  You tell him: that he wrote it all down.  He looks at you for a while with his chin on his hands, fifteen years old, and for one second — one — you think the question is coming, the real one, the one his son's son will finally answer in a records basement sixty years from now.  Then he says: 'Dad. Was the telephone really in a shoe?'  And you say yes, and he says 'Which shoe?', and you tell him, because you have never in your life told anybody anything else.  (+10)"
    },
    {
      "name": "papers",
      "sprite": "typewriter",
      "x": 42,
      "y": 126,
      "look": "Your liaison report, in the typewriter, nearly done. And beside it, blank, squared to the desk edge: the retirement papers. Twenty-six years. Two weeks.",
      "synonyms": "retirement report typed liaison forms",
      "requires_flag": "told_son",
      "wins": true,
      "use_text": "You finish the liaison report.  You put in all of it. The dome, and the porters' notes. The shoe, and the message you took on it, in block capitals, with the time. The mailbox that sneezed. The map that was short two pins, and which two. The doorway on Commerce Street, the four-hour watch, the question Miss Vale asked at dawn, and the answer you gave her, which was yes.  Eleven pages. Every sentence in it is true. Anybody who read it — anybody, once, ever — would know everything.  Captain Sturges signs it on Friday without reading it, in the middle of a sentence about your retirement dinner.  The federal file closes CLERICAL. Miss Vale's map hangs in a house in Maryland for the rest of her life, two pins short, and she never adds them, and she never tells anybody why there is a city on her wall.  And in two weeks you hand in a shield, twenty-six years, the best clearance rate in the history of the division, and you walk home past the Merchants Provident, and you do not stop at the doorway, and the porch light is on, because you always leave it on.  Somewhere in the dark of the yard, a hen makes a noise. It is Wednesday tomorrow.  ★"
    }
  ]
}