by Melissa Ostrom Justus Menke In August, the brick place at the end of Woodchuck Alley is trellised in bindweed. Rain stains the boarded windows to a penny sheen. The place is hard to place. An abandoned house? A shuttered shop? That window might have been a kitchen window with a sink below, its sill a shelf for an African violet, a cactus, a rock, or it could have displayed shoes or books or hats. Either way, somebody would have looked out, and somebody would have looked in