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.
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