“GODDAMN IT!”

He punches a button, and the garage door begins its creaking ascent. With the light of the afternoon streaming in, he can see into the shadows on the far side of the garage. They also took Audrey’s car, an old Camry with a hundred thousand miles and a fritzy air conditioner. Tools gone, lawn mower gone. Michael kicks a bag of mulch because he has to kick something. He kicks it again, the bag giving way like someone’s soft middle. Then he stomps back into the kitchen and dials the police.

It’s not the Johnstons’ fault, he’d never say that. But next-door neighbors Betty and Dave Johnston always did look in on the place when the Taylors were away, and after Betty’s fall … well. Audrey and Michael sent flowers to Betty’s hospital room, and when Dave called to thank them, Michael steered conversation toward their street—he wanted to make sure they’d still be checking in. That’s when Dave confessed they’d not be coming around. They were moving into one of those retirement developments. Michael didn’t know what to say to that. The idea of giving up so much of one’s life—possessions, property, even the ability to set one’s own damn dinnertime—was terrifying. You sure about this? he asked Dave. His neighbor replied that the house was already listed, and he’d hired some college kids to pack up the place.

So Dave and Betty weren’t there to hear the home alarm wail or notice when it unceremoniously stopped. They didn’t see the perps coming and going, wreaking havoc in the pool. But Michael had to admit that things started going south well before Betty’s fall. With the recession came a wave of bad mortgages, homeowners owing more than their properties’ worth. Foreclosures. Some people walked away. The house on the other side of them had been empty for a year, nominally on sale but even the broker had stopped coming around. Last spring, not in their development, but not too far away, either, he’d seen a row of houses that had gone to seed: boarded up, gap-toothed with broken windows, pocked with orange eviction notices. Was that coming for them? Michael didn’t know; he sure as shit hoped not. Theirs had been a nice neighborhood—kids biking in the streets and splashing in pools. Michael never sees children playing anymore.

Long story short, the Johnstons sold quick, and for a too-low price, to some developer buying up lots like they were Monopoly houses—he had three on their block, four on the next. Dave had heard the guy was fixing to raze the whole neighborhood, but when Michael pressed, Dave changed the subject.

Michael and Audrey wait on the dead grass, holding hands. Michael hopes that by squeezing Audrey’s she can get his message: Hang on, sweetheart. We’ll be okay. The responding officer doesn’t use a siren, but the lights on his squad car flash red and blue. Officer Miller looks like he might’ve played high school football thirty years back. Michael gives him the short version of their rude welcome, and Miller stomps inside. He comes back out in what feels like ninety seconds and tells them they are lucky to still have their plumbing, which strikes Michael as a pretty rotten thing to say.