Years had passed since Rock was last in this enormous old house, but as before, he had moved in at the invitation of extended family members. He was given the familiar back portion, which alone was twice the size of his former house in Levy. Rock remembered living in this very section several times over the last thirty years.
On his first day there, one of his many Hispanic first cousins—an overweight but pretty thirty-year-old woman—approached him in his kitchen with a photo album. His cousin and Rock overlooked a vast, dark-paneled den filled with at least a dozen other relatives. She tucked her left arm under Rock's right, leaned into him, and held the album so they could both see it. "Take a lot at these hot chicks, Rock," she said. "You need to meet them. They're really hot, and I promise, they would all love you."
He knew this was too good. It was impossible.
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