The place was sprawling. It seemed like a maze. You entered a room, and there it was: a miniature representation of an actual room, a bed, a neat comforter on top of it, a nightstand with a little lamp on it, a fuzzy rug, maybe even a framed poster. And then you turned another corner and there was something else: a tiny living room, you could sit on the tweed couches and feel that they were real, not just props, you could pick up the plastic fruit in a bowl on the oak or mahogany or teak table and nobody stopped you. You could dart into a bunk bed and sit there for a few seconds while your parents argued over which chair would look better in the living room, sneak back behind them and look at all those chairs, more chairs than anyone could ever hope to own, rows and rows and rows stretching out. These types of stores were always dimly lit, maybe so you couldn’t see tiny nicks or scratches in the wood. You walked in from the bright outdoors into the half-darkness, you followed along twists and turns and caught little snatches of possible lives, hundreds of them, with each new bedroom or living room set. It seemed like you were completely alone but no, there were other strangers there, pointing and comparing prices and blinking and tugging at their collars and shuffling along.

Fiction or Nonfiction?