Home usually is where the heart is, but if you can't find one or the other, then you've got problems.

When I was eight, firecrackers fascinated me. I mean the type you light up and throw on the ground before they go off in a rapid-fire chain of bursts that makes everybody in the neighborhood think they're getting shelled. But I wouldn't have been so intrigued if I had known then how quickly my life could go up in smoke.

I was twenty-six years old and life couldn't be better. Fresh out of grad school, I landed a job with a manufacturing firm. I'd just gotten married. We had a baby -- Cody -- on the way. It was high-time I moved out of my apartment and did what all the other respectable grown-ups did. It was time to buy a house.

The real estate agent showed us a three-two bungalow on the fringes of the county. It was a brand-new neighborhood. Some of the houses on our street were in various stages of construction at the time. My wife fell in love with it at first sight, and while it wiped out our life savings, we snapped it up at a bargain price. We qualified for special mortgage financing through a local bank. The deal was too good to pass up.

Then the savings and loan fiasco hit. Practically every local builder in the state went belly up, and many of the houses on our block remained unfinished.

The bank that had financed us hit hard times. They got swallowed up by bigger banks, and then even those banks were swallowed up. Every day we'd get mail informing us to redirect our mortgage payments to the successor banks. When all the dust kicked up during the financial mess had finally settled, our loan had come to rest in the hands of a national bank headquartered in New York City, thousands of miles away.

The first piece of correspondence the bank sent us was a "welcome" letter, introducing themselves to us. It was nothing short of a punchlist setting out the documents they needed from us to sort out the financial mess they'd inherited. Their letter closed -- politely enough -- with a reminder that we would occasion an immediate default and foreclosure if we failed to cooperate. By then we were eight years invested in the home, so we weren't in a position to take their request lightly. We mailed back a thick envelope chock full of everything they asked for.

Weeks passed. Then got this letter from a finance company we'd never heard of. As it turns out, the bank that owned our mortgage note also bought up the insurance company that wrote the policy on our home, and changed its name soon after. The letter explained that the insurance company was cancelling our policy due to "irregularities" pertaining to the title to our home, and that the bank would be following up with another letter soon. 

The bank never wrote back. Instead, it got its high-powered New York attorneys to do that for them. The lawyers said we'd defrauded the predecessor bank by getting a mortgage on a tract of land that -- get this -- did not exist.

We didn't have any money to hire an attorney, so I did the best I could on my own. I took a few days off from work to investigate exactly what had gone wrong. County records revealed that our neighborhood sat in an unincorporated sector of the county. The post office where our mail was processed was located in a city twenty miles south, but since our neighborhood was lumped into the same mail route, it was assigned the same geographic code as the city, despite being nowhere near each other.

That was just the tip of the iceberg my research uncovered, although, in retrospect, I did get carried away. Those couple of days I took off work turned into weeks. My dismissal letter had been sitting on the dinner table in a jumble of other mail before I even knew I'd been fired.

With no money to pay the note, it was a sure thing that the bank would take us to court. Nonetheless, I was ready. I'm no lawyer, but I did one heck of a job. You should have seen the look on the judge's face. He laughed those bigshot lawyers out of court when he heard them trying to foreclose on a property they said didn't exist. But, as if to add insult to injury, the bank rigged things so that nobody -- not me, not the bank, not the county recorder's office, nobody -- can say for sure who really owns the land now, and it'll be a long time before anyone can sort it out.

My victory, if you can call it that, was bittersweet. Luanne left the house one day while I was out at the labor exchange. She'd taken Cody with her. We don't talk much. Things are awkward. Still, she is good enough to let me spend time with Cody every other weekend.

The neighborhood hasn't changed. My neighbors -- if you can call them that -- are still bombed-out shells of never-built houses. I still draw water from a hand pump well in the backyard. The roof is falling in, and since I can't show proof I legally own the place, I can't refinance to pay for repairs.

But for what it's worth, the house is mine. I live here, I fought for it, and no one's taking it from me. Even when a man's got nothing left, he's got to keep his principles.

Ever read your auto insurance policy? You'll likely find a section heading that reads something along the lines of "comprehensive collision coverage," all in bold letters to make you feel at ease if ever your car might be wrecked. Don't be lulled into a false sense of security -- the "risks insured against" section under that heading is almost always shorter than the "risks excluded", and you're getting a lot less than you think.

For instance, your insurer might replace your windshield -- no questions asked --  if you strike a passing bird in mid-flight. But then, when you get to the "nuclear hazard exclusion", you realize that if your local power plant melts down and reduces your car to a pile of molten slag, they'll disclaim all responsibility.

The solution: in the event your car becomes a steaming heap of scrap, find a dead bird and toss it onto the hood. Your insurer will have a hard time denying responsibility after you tell them that one bird did all that damage. 

Robert fidgeted in his seat as he waited for corporate loss control to arrive. He hadn't been on the job three weeks and already he had wrecked a company car. All at once, his dreams of one day becoming a senior vice president had evaporated, and he'd be lucky if Mundano Corp. let him stay on to scrub the office toilets for the next twenty years.

The doorknob clattered, snagging his attention. Two men stepped into the office. One rounded the desk and sat down. The other shut the office blinds and stood beside the door, arms crossed.

The man at the desk paged through the binder on his lap. "Guernsey?"

"Yes," said Robert. "Robert Guernsey."

The man didn't look up. "What happened?"

Robert's mouth went dry. The man at the door shifted and his suit gave the tiniest rustle.

"A deer jumped into the roadway," Robert said. "It jumped right in front of me -- there was nowhere I could go." His shoulders slumped. "It was awful."

The man at the desk nodded at appropriate intervals but gave nothing but the occasional "M-hm" in response.

The office was silent.

"I, uh," Robert ventured, figuring he needed to justify himself further. "I called loss control from the scene. I've already filled out the police paperwork and..."

"What could you have done differently?" the man interrupted.

Robert stammered. "I... I beg your pardon?"

The man sighed at having to explain the obvious. "All accidents are avoidable. How could you have avoided this loss event?"

Robert thought on that some. He'd never been in a car accident involving wildlife, and it hadn't occurred to him that something like this could have been avoided. Besides, it had all happened so fast.

"I don't know," Robert said at last.

The man standing by the doorway leaned into Robert's ear. "What do you mean you don't know?" he accused.

"I don't know!"

"Guernsey," the man at the desk said, "please address your responses to me. Now, answer my question: what could you have done differently to prevent this loss?"

"I already told you, I don't know."

The man at the desk and the one by the door exchanged glances. "M-hm."

Robert shifted to rise out of his chair. "Look, I really need to be getting back to work, so..."

"We're not done yet," said the man at the door, putting out a hand to shove Robert back into his seat.

"But I..."

"Address me only, Guernsey," said the man at the desk.

Robert glanced at the man at the desk, then the man at the door and back again. A fine sweat broke on his brow.

The man at the desk shuffled through papers in his binder. "Could you have taken a different route that day?"

"I've been taking the same route to work since I started working here."

"Answer the question!" the man at the door shouted in Robert's ear.

"I... maybe, I guess," Robert said. "But the state turnpike is fifty miles west. It'll double my commute time."

"M-hm."

Silence.

"And did you know that deer lived in the woods along your route to work?" asked the man at the desk.

"Well, yeah, sure, but..."

"Then why didn't you affix an avoidance whistle to your company vehicle?"

"A... a what?"

"An avoidance whistle." The man reached into the desk drawer and removed a plastic tube. "You attach this to your car and as you travel at speed, and it produces a high-pitched thrumming sound to warn animals of your approach."

"I didn't know such things existed."

Again the corporate men exchanged glances. "M-hm. You are aware that irresponsible use of corporate assets is conduct for which you may be terminated."

"I don't understand," said Robert. "There was nothing I could do..."

The man at the door wheeled around Robert and got in his face. "You drove in an area you knew was populated by deer. You failed to use a safer route. You failed to use an avoidance whistle."

"It was an accident!" Robert shouted over him.

"Guernsey." It was the man at the desk who spoke. With the other man standing between them, Robert could not see him, nor could he see Robert. "This is your final warning. Address me only."

The man went back to his post by the door. The other man, the one at the desk, leveled a cold stare on Robert. "I will prepare a company loss report. A copy will be placed in your employee file, along with the list of preventative measures you have agreed to undertake so this doesn't happen in the future."

Robert felt it was safest to nod in response, despite that he was fairly sure he hadn't agreed to anything.

That evening, Robert's replacement vehicle was waiting for him in the company garage, fitted with a brand-new pair of avoidance whistles, one to each fender. They stood out in garish red against the unassuming gray paint of his corporate sedan. The constant drone the whistles made permeated the passenger cabin, and no genre or loudness of music could blot it out. By a week's time, no one wanted to carpool with him, and he had to take on the whole of the fuel expense himself. The gas bill mushroomed with all the extra driving he did, taking the long way to work via the state turnpike and idling in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours. His commute stretched to three hours daily. All that lost time forced him to stay late each evening and come in on weekends to meet deadlines. Lack of sleep made it hard to focus at work, saying nothing of the persistent migraines his pair of avoidance whistles triggered in him. His job performance took a tumble, as was evidenced on his quarterly reports.

When finally they found him sprawled on his couch, a handle of whiskey by his head and sleeping pills strewn across the floor, it came as a shock to his co-workers. Still more puzzling was what the police had found in his kitchen sink -- a hacksaw and a pair of avoidance whistles cut into tiny bits. 

It should come as no surprise that insurance companies don't get rich by writing their customers checks. Like any enterprise, they're in the business of making money. Sometimes that means raising premiums, other times it means cutting costs. To an insurance company, you are a cost -- that's why people in the industry lovingly refer to their customers not as clients but as "risks", as in, "Well Mr. Stevenson, we normally wouldn't insure rabble like you, but since you're such a good risk..."

This entry is the first in a series of insurance horror stories, stories which -- although they have been massaged a bit to protect the innocent (and fend off insurance companies' attorneys) -- are still too true for comfort.

Consider yourself warned, these stories are not for the faint of heart.

Ira sat with an expectant smile on his face, his wife's hand in his. Today was his first visit to the obstetrician. Judith was pregnant after several weeks of trying. It was still too early for her to be showing but they both knew, and just knowing was enough to bring proud smiles to their faces.

It sure hadn't been easy. While Judith had children from her prior marriage, Ira had none. It meant a lot to him that he'd be a father soon, and as much to her that she could finally give him what he'd sought after.

He eased back in his seat. The faux wood chair in which he sat did little in terms of comfort or looks for the doctor's office. His tailbone hurt from sitting. They'd been fifteen minutes early to their appointment. A glance at Ira's watch revealed that the doctor was already twenty minutes late.

As if summoned by Ira's thoughts, Dr. Mossberg bustled in through the door of his practice, the slat blinds in the door slapping against the glass as he stepped in. The doctor hadn't time for so much as a hello as he left the reception area for the office in back. The reception window slid open a minute later, revealing the face of the all-too-bored-with-her-job teenage girl who staffed the desk.

"Burnside?" she said.

Ira nearly sprang out of his chair. "Yes, that's us."

"Enter, please."

Ira held open the door for Judith as the receptionist buzzed them in. They rounded the corner and met Dr. Mossberg at his  desk. "Come, sit," said the doctor, holding out his arms to indicate the two chairs across from him.

"I understand you're coming to me because your wife is having a baby," the doctor went on.

"Yes," said Ira. "My first."

Dr. Mossberg's eyes flitted over to Judith. An uncomfortable silence set in.

"My third," Judith volunteered.

Mossberg nodded, and it was an exaggerated gesture, as though he knew something they didn't and was on the verge of telling them. "I thought as much," he said, snapping shut the folder on his desk. "I just got off the phone with your insurance company. They're declining coverage."

"What!" Ira leapt out of his chair. "That's not possible. My company's health plan covers my wife and I for all maternity expenses."

"Well, yes and no," Mossberg was hesitant to say. "You," he said, looking at Ira,"are covered for all maternity expenses." He shifted over to Judith. "You are not."

Ira was flabbergasted. "That's ridiculous. I'm not the one carrying this child, she is!"

"I'm sorry," Mossberg cut in.

"No! That's inexcusable! What am I paying their premiums for, if not this?"

"Insurance is about risk, Mister Burnside. You pay them to take a gamble on you not getting sick, or in your case..." He trailed off, jabbed his pen in Judith's direction. "Much like you took a risk that your wife wouldn't be covered under your insurance policy when you married her. I'm sorry, but like any game, there are winners and losers."

Ira brought a cold look to bear on Dr. Mossberg.

"Don't be angry with me," said the doctor. "I don't write insurance policies, but they are how I get paid. Unless you want to go out of pocket."

Judith was on the verge of tears. "We... we can't afford that."

Mossberg gave such a thoughtful nod that it couldn't have been more insincere.

"On what grounds is our coverage denied?" Ira asked.

Mossberg paused. "Pre-existing condition."

Ira stared at Judith. She looked back at him with panicked eyes.

"What condition, doctor?" Ira asked.

Mossberg shrugged with his palms up. "Well, she did say she'd been pregnant before, and that settles it in their book. Your health plan explicitly excludes pre-existing conditions from coverage."

Ira was beside himself. "So you're saying working people like us can't have more than two children?"

"Well, no," Mossberg stammered. "No one's preventing you from having a big family." He paused and his tone darkened. "As long as you don't mind paying for them yourself." Mossberg rocked back in his chair, knit his fingers at his chest. "So, what to do, folks?"