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tent.
    “Well, thank you, Mrs. Mooney. Come on in,” said Jake, shrugging at Annie as they followed behind her. When they peered in through the front flap, their busybody neighbour had plopped herself down in the very middle of the tent with her arms and legs crossed.
    “So?” asked Annie.
    “Well, I just never knew it could be so …” Mrs. Mooney spontaneously adopted a yoga pose, with both hands on her knees, palms facing up. “Actually, I would prefer to be left alone, if you wouldn’t mind, so that I can have an authentic experience,” she said, before zipping the front flap closed.
    The day after Mrs. Mooney’s visit, the Johnstones from #38 showed up on their doorstep with a fistful of freshly picked begonias from their garden, which they offered in exchange for some quality time in the tent. Even the neighbourhood curmudgeon, Drew Kendal, gave up on his reclusive habits and made the epic journey down the street on his walker, bearing chocolates filled with liquor. He spoke as if somewhere along the line he had been given lessons in elocution, and was always encouraging: “I’ve always thought exceedingly well of you, sir,” the old man said, peering up at Jake from beneath his tufty eyebrows, “but now I feel quite confirmed in my supposition that you have been an excellent father and a true gentleman all these years. My sincerest commendation on this triumph.” Mr. Kendal came back to the tent three more times and was not socantankerous after all. Annie and her dad quickly found themselves surrounded by tokens of appreciation – bottles of wine, homemade pumpkin bread, and a frozen Quiche Lorraine – all within the first week. None of the neighbours had ever been inside their home before, so except for the fact that they had been living there for over a decade, it felt like a housewarming.
    Much to Jake’s surprise, the visitors did nothing but compliment him on the success of the birthday present and on raising such a fine young woman. He had expected somebody to comment on the unusual location of the tent, or at least to ask what was so special about putting an ordinary tent that anyone could buy at a department store in an ordinary living room that could be anyone’s living room. Nobody reacted like that, though.
    On the second Saturday that the tent was open to the public, Jake made lemonade and left a jug with Styrofoam cups by the door so that people could have a refreshing drink while they waited for their turn. By the end of the second weekend, they began to implement a system so that each visitor was guaranteed an equal amount of time in the tent. Jake was in charge of manning the door and restocking the refreshments, and Annie ran the egg timer, which made a clear, bright “ping!” when tent time was over.
    Miss Bee, Annie’s art teacher, started crying while she was in the tent. “It’s simply astounding. A performance piece!” she said, hugging Annie afterwards. “I’ve never seen anything so sophisticated in my entire teaching career! The way you’re involving the viewer in sensuous experience, Annie, and with no training in artistic practice.”
    “Hi, I’m Annie’s dad,” said Jake, sidling up to the two of them and extending his hand to the teacher.
    “Your daughter has real talent,” Miss Bee said, still clasping Jake’s hand in both of hers. “I hope you realize how truly gifted she is.”
    “I didn’t know I was being graded,” Annie joked.
    “Grades are hardly the point,” said Miss Bee, finally releasing Jake’s hand so she could wipe her eyes with a tissue. “But yes, A+.”
    By the fourth week, people began to drive from across town and gather in droves on the lawn to try out the tent. Because there could be quite a wait, Mrs. Jacobson, who worked at the Rec Centre, brought her face-painting supplies to keep the children entertained, and Mr. Reynolds set up a picnic blanket (complete with a romantic meal for him and his wife) on top of Annie’s