When a lender forecloses on a property, one of the first things he does is send somebody out to see if there is a house still standing and whether there’s anybody living there. That’s my job. Sometimes the houses are crack dens or meth labs, sometimes the sites of cock- or dog-fighting operations, sometimes the backyard is filled with pot. And sometimes the house is a waterfront mansion in a gated golf community worth well over seven figures. Variety is the rule.

Some people have been expecting me. Some claim they never knew they were foreclosed on or tell me that they have worked something out with their lender. Some won’t tell me a thing. If nobody is home, I have to determine where they are — at work, on vacation, in the Army, in jail, in a nursing home, dead or moved away. It isn’t easy.

Many lenders are willing to negotiate with the occupants instead of taking them to court. In exchange for surrendering a property in reasonably clean condition with the furnace still hooked up, the kitchen not stripped and the basement not intentionally flooded, the lender will cut the occupants a check. When I explain that the lender is offering them money to leave, sometimes they tell me that they haven’t slept for months, not knowing if tomorrow would be the day when somebody kicks in their door and throws their kids out on the lawn. You can hear the release of a massive weight in their voices. It isn’t much, but at least it’s something.