I had left a friend's house early one morning to discover that the house across the street had been torn down. Two yellow excavators creaked in the dirt as their metal shrank in the cold. I could have sworn that house was there the day before. It couldn't have happened during the night. That seemed too quick and strange a time to break down something so large and so personal. And I probably would have heard it happening.
It was after that thought when a sharp pain ran up my spine. After a stretch, I started shuffling down the street towards my car. I wanted to see how long I could last without hearing someone speak.