"I’m losing my mind," he muttered.
The system was perfect.
The house at 13 Mockingbird Lane didn't look like much from the street—peeling white paint, a porch swing that creaked without wind, and gutters stuffed with the skeletal remains of autumns past. But inside, it was a kingdom. Animal House
For six months, Harold was none the wiser. He collected the rent via autopay from a tenant he’d never met—a reclusive programmer named "Sam." But Sam was a fiction. The house ran itself.
Their landlord was a man named Harold Finch, a retired accountant who wore cardigans and believed in order. He did not believe in pets. The lease was clear: "No animals of any kind." "I’m losing my mind," he muttered
1. The "No Animals" clause is hereby void, as the undersigned tenant is, by legal definition, a collective of sentient non-human persons. 2. Rent shall continue to be paid via automated fish-canning operation (basement, northwest corner). 3. The landlord agrees to provide monthly pest control, with the specific exclusion of squirrels, who are now officially tenants.
In the center of the room, on a low table, lay a document. Harold picked it up. It was a lease addendum, typed on an old Remington—the same model Harold himself used to write the original lease. It had been amended in careful, claw-typed letters. But inside, it was a kingdom
Addendum to Lease Agreement for 13 Mockingbird Lane: