The Bubble: House ~repack~

The contractor snorted. “Lady, that’s clay and shale. I’d need a crew of six for two weeks. Cost him triple.”

He explained his problem. Mrs. Gable listened, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Arthur. But I’m not moving The Bubble. I spent my inheritance on it. It’s my home.” the bubble house

“Your floor is a slab, isn’t it? We’d cut a channel, lay the pipe, re-pour the concrete. You’d have a small, straight seam. Like a… like a spine.” The contractor snorted

His neighbor, Mrs. Gable, had a different philosophy. She believed a house should express the soul. Her soul, apparently, was a sphere. For six months, she’d had a crew constructing what the town zoning board officially called a “non-standard geodesic habitation unit” and everyone else called The Bubble. Cost him triple

The trouble started with a leak. Not in The Bubble—that thing was sealed tighter than a pickle jar—but in Arthur’s basement. A slow, seeping trickle from a hairline crack in the foundation. He called a contractor.