And so Suzanne put in a call to Nick Cox, who came over dressed from head to toe in protective gear, a crowbar in his hand.

TED SAT ON THE CURB ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE DAVENPORT-GARDNERS’, his hands jammed into the pockets of his down jacket, his legs splayed in the blocked-off road. He watched Nick’s yellow bulldozer standing at the ready, engine running, gnashing its teeth, ready to tear the boards off Grant and Suzanne’s house at Nick’s command. The bulldozer wasn’t much bigger than the Coxes’ SUV. A Volvo, oddly enough, just like his and Allison’s wagon.

Jillian sat beside Ted, more engaged than he’d seen her since her Disney princess phase. “Wow,” she said between bites of bagel and smoked salmon from their abandoned New Year’s brunch. Ted had run out of the house empty-handed after seeing the bulldozer roll down the street. His stomach was growling, but he didn’t want to leave for fear things would get worse in his absence. The bulldozer might have at the house, removing chunks, leaving it as airy as a hunk of Swiss cheese. They had been dragging out big hunks of drywall already, as if they were planning to hollow it out first. “Can I have a bite of your bagel?” he asked Jillian.

“A small one,” she said.

Ted took a nibble.

“Oh, Dad! You nearly ate the whole thing!” She wrenched back the bagel and walked away.

A sound like a jackhammer came from within the house. White clouds puffed through the open windows, dust settling onto the grass.

Allison, sitting on Ted’s other side, held her camera up to take a picture, then lowered it without taking a shot, an action she’d repeated several times since they’d arrived. “It was the best example of a Sears house in Willard Park,” she eulogized.

“It’s still standing, Al,” Ted said.

“Not for much longer. Damn him!”

Ted put his arm around her, but she pulled away, not wanting to be held in her moment of grief. “Yes. Damn him,” he agreed.

The Thorps, who’d just arrived with beach chairs and Bloody Marys, waved to Ted and Allison. They settled down between the Conways and Mrs. Olden. Ted was reminded of the spectators at the Battle of Gettysburg, who came out for a pleasant afternoon of picnicking.

Nick Cox was willfully and wantonly defying Willard Park’s newly passed moratorium. You couldn’t hack away at your house on a whim! It required applications and permits, all of which Ted had shouted to the demolition crew, only to be shouldered back behind the yellow tape that rimmed the property.

He called every county department remotely associated with building construction and destruction, but all he got were voice recordings wishing him a happy new year and advising him to call back during business hours. The emergency number appeared to be disconnected. Finally, he called 911. The operator promised to send someone right over. That had been nearly an hour ago. Meanwhile, Willard Park town council members pecked about like geese, waving official-looking papers.