Honorable Mention – Written by Susan Damerville – The Veigles worked genius in a way. They owed months of back rent, then fled as the letter of eviction was dropping in the mailbox. They broke every promise of the lease: had their cigarettes, dogs and an un­caged cockatiel in the house; punched holes in the wall; clogged the drain with grease and dinner scraps.

They left an arm chair, brown­bald, no cushion, a hairy blanket, bird poop and feathers, crayon drawings on the wall and greasy residue all over. And smells. I hauled their remains to the curb. I followed every hack and DIY get-­rid-­of-­odor site. Armed with vinegar, Dawn, Scrubbing Bubbles, I went after the odius scent of the Veigles. I threw open windows and let fans run non­stop. I boxcut the chewed­ up carpet and rolled it out.

I scrubbed until my fingers bled. I patched. I painted everything. A splot of red nail polish on the tile wiped off with acetate, then I realized it could be blood, a cut somewhere during the desperate flight ­­maybe my own scraped knuckles. I set air fresheners by the front door, in closets where their smokey clothes hung and in the middle of Lexie’s room where even a poster of Cinderella at the ball was grimy and reeking.

I boiled stockpots of William ­Sonoma’s scented ­room recipe: cinnamon, cloves, rosemary. I baked brownies for the homey aroma. But the smell of motor grease, wet dog and cigarettes hit me everytime I opened the front door. The Veigles clung on, their smell going layers deep into the concrete foundations and drywall.

Jason came by. “Yow,” he said. “I know,” I said, tears welling, maybe from the ammonia, but I was feeling defeated.

“You should stop scratching those bites. They could get infected,” Jason said.

I hadn’t even realized the itchy blisters circling my ankles, up my arms, into my hairline. I didn’t feel my fingernails gouging skin when I scratched unconsciously. I closed the windows and set off six fumigating bombs. When the fog cleared, I vacuumed bug carcasses, mopped floors with full ­strength Clorox, swabbed walls with undiluted pinesol,rubbed lemons on the counters.

Finally, another essence arose in the house.

This house with its windows of cheery light. It was so safe, so cozy for the right family. The Veigles. I felt for them when they showed up. They were scrawny, their livelihood scraggly. But they promised they could make rent. I wanted to feed them, shelter them. “Your haven,” I said, handing over the keys.

That was then. Now, I was just mad. And hurt. I mean how could they? Jason brought a woman to see it. “She liked it,” Jason texted, “she said it was clean.” A few months after we let go of the house, I thought I saw them, the Veigles, coming out of Cici’s Pizza. They looked okay, not twisted up with guilt or anything. But I felt for them again. Them not even knowing the battle I had scrubbing out their smell.