All is soft silence, save for a ringing in the ears. Afterimage of thunderous chaos.
Mister Puss, saucer-eyed, meows a sick meow. Looks this way and that, as if to say-
where is hammer? Booming boots? Cracking tiles? Thuds and drags? In the fourteen days, he had become inured, comfortable, expectant of the next morning’s assault.
As our savior, he had taken on our very nerve endings, mirrored our anxiousness, and transformed all into a metered purr. If he was alright, then so were we.
And now, in this vacuous day, we trust he will show us the way.
The renos are done.