“Margie, you okay, girl?” He stayed on his knees and crawled toward her.

His wife lay on her side, moaning. He bet it was her hip; she’d had a replacement half a dozen years back, and still complained of it.

Bill went to an upturned table among the debris of furniture, broken pottery, papers, sheets of plaster, and something else – dozens more of the scurrying roaches.

“What the hell?” He bet it was an earthquake, and a big one by the feel of it. He scrambled around in the murky light, just the ghost of a glow coming in through the windows. He pulled a drawer and emptied it, rummaging until he found a small flashlight, and flicked it on.

Margaret was sitting up, holding her stomach. There was blood on her face.

“You okay?” he whispered, not knowing why quietness was important.

She nodded. “What happened?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bill used the table to push himself to his feet and walked to the window. He was right – there looked to be walls built all around them. He frowned as he followed them upward, and placing his face close to the glass he saw that the walls loomed hundreds of feet over the house. At the very top, there was sky…and maybe a lemon tree.

“Holy…” These weren’t walls that had sprung up; instead the house had fallen down into some sort of pit.

He still had his cheek pressed to the glass when something rushed past. “Christ on a cross!” He pulled back as though electric shocked. The shadow had been huge: twice as big as a man.

“Bill, is there a fire?” Margaret had managed to get to one knee.

“You just stay there a moment, old girl. I got to check on something.” Bill licked his lips and ran a forearm up over his head. It was blistering hot, and though he couldn’t smell smoke, he could smell something that refused to be identified – sulfur, methane, and fishy like. He remembered being at a beach when he was a kid, and there was a shark carcass high and dry on the sand, all bloated up in the hot sun – it was that sort of smell.

He turned his small light beam to the floor, checking the rubble, and then picked his way through it to the front door. The frame was warped, and deep cracks run up past the lintel, and across the ceiling. The house was warped. Forget about repairs; this is a knock-down job, he thought. Hannity’s Insurance would have a fit.

He grasped the handle, and immediately jerked his hand away – it was damned hot. He gritted his teeth. “Man up,” he whispered, and grabbed it again. The brass knob was hot, but not searingly so. He turned and tugged, and the door moved a quarter inch and them jammed tight. Plaster dust rained down onto his head and neck. Bill grunted and tugged again, and this time the door flew inwards.