Our area of operations that day was Mirror Lake. Meghan, my partner for the summer, and the only one of us who could drive stick, guided our Department of Public Works pickup down toward the half-drained bog that gave the place its name. Second-growth spruce and oak trees overhung the narrow streets and dominated and complicated the tiny yards. The houses had all been thrown up quickly in the 1950s for returning GIs. Most of them had several dark shingles dangling or missing from their siding, like poor people’s teeth. The dogs were rampant. They romped through the streets, pooped