“Did you pack?” he asked.
“This is my home. My wife died in there.
You can’t—”
He turned his head.
Two workers moved toward me like I was in the way.
Elliot held out the envelope again.
“Take it, Mr. Brooke. Go to the facility.
Be safe. This isn’t personal. It’s business.”
I stared at the check, then at him.
He snorted.
“What rubbish.”
Then he raised his hand and made a little half-circle in the air.
The machines roared to life.
If you’ve never heard a home die, I hope you never do.
It’s not one crash.
Continue reading…
