All the houses are the same.             I stand at the end of the street, the pavement reflecting the heat of the sun straight back up at my face. I wipe the beads of sweat off of my forehead. I see three neighbors mowing their pristine lawns. The houses in which they live are in a row, and their identicalness disturbs me.             As I move over to the side walk, I see waves of heat hanging in mid air like waves of water. Only they are a good deal hotter. I smile grimly at my own joke. The sidewalk pavement is white, the worst kind. I wipe sweat off of my lip with my shirt collar.             I pass all of the identical houses, and at each one there is a woman out sweeping the porch. All of them wear over-tight capris and a tucked in tank top. Each of them stops their sweeping and smile and wave at me. I don’t look at them, and just hurry past quickly.             I pass the mowing men. I notice that none of them are sweating. I break into a run. I don’t see anything else but the stop sign at the end of the street. I can feel my shirt sticking wetly to my back, and my legs are cramping, and I have a stitch in my side, but I ignore them all. Getting off the street is all that matters right now.             At long last, I reach the stop sign. Its green sign at the top says that the name of this street is Petunia Garden Court. The next one is called Roseberry Avenue. I catch my breath for a few moments, clutching the painful stitch in my side. I glance nervously around me. I hear a single call from behind me-a sweeping woman-saying “Goodbye, Newcomer!” and I run down Roseberry.             Please, please don’t be another one, I think as I run, gasping for breath. In a matter of moments I am around the curve and at the end of another street.             All the houses are the same.