Months of stacking water in dining rooms, hallways, back bedrooms, stair wells, beside couches, on counter tops, coffee tables and chairs, I’m still surprised to hear the rhythmic chirping of a smoke detector with a dead battery. Chirping common as ashtrays on end tables and chair arms I surround with cases of water. The first few times I say what doesn’t need saying. My son’s coming tomorrow. The landlord. Maybe next week. I learn to ignore the chirping, step around recliners, leave a trail of cases disappearing down dim hallways, working quick, quick, back to the truck and on to the next stop.