They all know it’s a lie. They enjoy it, not because it’s fun or easy, but because it is fast and they are on it from the beginning to the end, not stuck in the middle, doing the structural work after the masons and before the glaziers. In demo they are the whole show.

“Betcha liked demo pay, though.”

“Yeah. Always did like that.”

They hear the rumble of the Cat coming up Franklin and stub out their cigarettes.

“Let’s rock and roll,” says the one who gave Simon the cigarette. “You know the drill, partner. Can’t have you inside the tape.”

Simon nods and leans against the truck.

“I’ll watch from here.”

The men greet the Cat, eyeball the thin driveway and motion it through to the back.

Once it is in position they throw the clamps and lower the stabilizers and after the last inspection the driver raises the bucket and swings it sideways into the top floor, right below the dormer in Simon and Lester’s old room.

Who would have thought the change would be so immediate? The timber so soft? Simon, having seen the demise of just about everything—bridges, trains, brownstone, Superior sandstone, concrete, wood trestle, frame houses, his brother’s head—is shocked. The steel bucket of the Cat passes through the studs and decking like a hand through smoke. There is no resistance as the two-by-fours are scraped from the cap. The asphalt shingles bunch and break like panfish scales. Everything about it should be hard. The Indian neighborhood demands it. Nothing that isn’t hardy, whether structural or emotional, ever survives. Zoning, rent fixing, and the winters take care of that. The no-numbered house itself carried so much into their lives and resisted their contributions to such an extent, it should fight harder against those bent on knocking it down. Betty, Simon, Lester and the girls endured so much just to live there. Just to suffer the drafts and dinge, the cramp and accommodation. The house should have more grit. It doesn’t, and Simon suspects their family was bought cheap.

The bucket retracts and swings back to center. It uncurls at the wrist and passes through the absent dormer and jerks through the attic to the top of the roof. Simon hears the scream of ancient nails as the joists are ripped apart.

The other men scramble underneath as the bucket passes back. They pile the debris against the base of the house. They don’t need to, it can all be pushed into place with the bobcat later, but it is daredevil stuff, like soldiers jumping out of the trenches between shell bursts to taunt the enemy.