wombat football

Oakfield, III

After four days, the house was still howling, loud and strong as ever. Sometimes it sounded like an abandoned animal, pining for the family who had left it behind. Evidently the alarm was getting power from some other source; our next beacon of hope was that the electric company would cut the supply to the whole house when they were notified that it was empty.

We’d taken to meeting on each other’s front lawns, forming little debating teams to argue over which way best to proceed. Ed and Susan Miera lived directly behind the Millers, having both moved up from Santa Fe a couple of years ago to take up programming positions at Omicron. Ed was a light sleeper; he looked pretty frayed. We stood around their small ornamental pond, and let him vent his frustration:

“I don’t care what the fire guys said. If I’m still hearing that thing tomorrow, I’m breaking in there and stopping it.”

“Ed, you’re just gonna end up in a police cell if you start busting doors down,” said Lea, laughing. “Start sleeping with your head under the pillow like the rest of us.”

“It’s not funny, Lea. I haven’t slept a wink in the last four nights. This is fucking ridiculous.” Ed stormed off into the house. Susan smiled at us wearily, then followed him inside.

“He’s right,” I said, as their front door clicked shut. “This is ridiculous. Four days now, and nobody can do anything about it?” Lea sighed.

“I’ve called everyone I can think of. Police, fire department, town planning - they’re all trying to find out who actually owns the place.” She shrugged, resignedly. “Apparently, whoever it is, they’re based outside the state, and that makes them pretty difficult to find.”

I put my arm around her, and we ambled back across Ed’s yard, the fire alarm still ringing in our ears.