Outside the window, the rain pours down, slapping against the concrete like a thousand angry fists.

CHAPTER 2

It’s an unsettling experience to drive through a place you’ve been a thousand times and not recognize it. Tomasetti and I are in his Tahoe heading south on Township Road 18. The closer we get to the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, the worse the damage becomes, until it’s an unrecognizable war zone. Mud and debris cover the asphalt. Power lines dangle like dead snakes from telephone poles that list at a 45-degree angle. The air smells of gas and burning plastic.

Tomasetti slows the Tahoe, his eyes scanning the area to my right. I’m about to ask him why he’s slowed down, when I realize we’ve arrived at our destination. I didn’t recognize it because half of the trailer homes are gone.

“Is this it?” he asks.

For an instant I can’t speak. I don’t know how to put the disbelief roiling inside me into words. I never liked this place; I didn’t much care for some of the people I came in contact with here. Willow Bend was the epitome of a neighborhood on the decline. The Painters Mill PD took more calls from this dismal trailer park than from the rest of the town combined. Drunk and disorderly. Domestic violence. Loud music. Loose dogs. The occasional burglary. But I never wanted this. I never wanted it gone.

The maple tree that had stood guardian at the entrance since I was a kid is gone. The only sign that it had ever existed is the jagged-edged stump that juts three feet from the earth like an abscessed tooth that’s burst.

As I look out over the land, I wonder if this is what it’s like in the aftermath of war. Dozens of mobile homes have been torn apart and lie in pieces. Several have rolled off their foundations. Others have been smashed by trees. Farther in, I see the back end of a pickup truck protruding from the side of a double-wide. An hour ago, this park had housed nearly thirty mobile homes—young couples and families and singles just starting their lives. Children had played in the postage-stamp-size yards. Barbeque grills and hibachis had been set up on decks. Cars had been parked in concrete driveways. Taking in the devastation, I know I’m going to find things I don’t want to find. I’m going to see things I don’t want to see.

I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I snatch up my phone and speed-dial the mayor. He answers on the first ring, sounding harried and stressed.

“Willow Bend is devastated,” I tell him. “We’re going to have casualties.”

“Aw … no.”

“I need you to get paramedics and the fire department out here. Ambulances.” I run out of breath, my lungs fluttering as if the air were suddenly too thin, and I realize I don’t even know if there are any survivors. “Auggie, get the sheriff’s department out here. Call the gas company. Tell them we’ve got a leak.”