Nothing would have prepared me for what I see when we exit the highway, however. If I hadn’t memorized the way—every turn and street that led to Jake’s old garage—I never would have been able to find this corner. There’s a Dumpster filled with brick, wood, and glass. The ground is nearly leveled, chunks of concrete all that’s left along the land—the foundation barely a sketch of what stood there less than seven days ago.

“It’s…gone,” I breathe, my stomach sinking as we open our doors, and I get out to walk the property. “Oh…Jessie.”

She was right. I understand. And I’m heartbroken.

There’s a sign posted on the ground for the development firm, along with a phone number to call for details on the new plan. I look at Jessie, knowing she sees it, too.

“Yeah, I already called it. It’s just a recording advertising the new condos coming next year,” she says, kicking a chunk of concrete loose on the ground into the metal of the bin. I pick one up in my hand and throw it at the metal next, wanting to punish the debris left behind, I guess.

I keep walking to the remains that are piled, ready to be hauled away. It looks like scraps from a building site—nothing even recognizable. I lift myself up, so I can look into the bin, and I reach forward when I notice the green trim of one of the windows. It’s the one from the office, and seeing it fills my eyes with tears.

Without even realizing it, I begin pulling at it frantically, trying to dislodge it from the boards and shards that are cutting into the paint.

“Help me, Jessie! Help me get this out!” I say, desperate to see it, to see if it’s survived.

Jessie doesn’t question, she only stands next to me, propped up on a carton, and helps me pull, until we have the window on the ground in front of us. For some reason, seeing it whole sends a bolt of adrenaline through my body. I leap up again, looking for more remnants—things I can save.

We clear out dozens of bricks, and both of our hands are bleeding by the time we reach the bottom of the bin. But I’m glad we powered through, never quitting until we saw everything left inside. The neon needs some repair, but the name is whole—Jake’s the sign reads.

Jessie calls Gabe without even asking, and he joins us early with his truck. We get the pieces—two whole windows and the sign—into the back of his truck and take them to my storage room. We tuck them in the back, safe, and out of the way, and then move my few furnishings into the truck in their place.

By the time we have everything moved in, the only place open to eat is the deli, so we end up there again. I didn’t taste my soup earlier, and I can barely stomach it now, so I end up getting the rest to go and carry it up to my new apartment.

“You sure you’re okay staying here tonight, by yourself?” Jessie asks, lingering at my doorway.

“I’m good,” I say, holding on at the frame, and kicking my toe against her boot.

“She’s just upset you’re leaving and is gonna miss you, that’s all,” Gabe says, wrapping his arm around Jessie and pulling her in for a hug.

“Yeah, so what,” Jessie says, trying to keep up her tough persona.

“So…what are you going to do with those windows…and the sign?” she asks.

“I’m not sure, but I just feel like I need to do something. He needs something,” I say, my focus fading and looking away from my two friends.

“What he needs is you,” Gabe says, just barely audible, but enough that I hear it when they walk away.

I lock the door behind them and slide down to the floor to sit with my feet facing my empty kitchen. I have very few belongings, and my small apartment looks more like the home of a squatter than an actual renter.

The lighting is dim from my one small lamp, but it’s enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pick up another lamp or two and maybe a table from the Goodwill down the road. I take a fast shower, thanks to the cold water, and unbox the old quilt and bed sheets to dress the mattress that’s directly on the floor.

My body is exhausted, but my mind doesn’t seem to be able to slow. There’s no view from my window, only the bare branches of the giant tree that’s covering it. So without anything else to distract me, I pull out my sketchbook and spread my drawings around me in bed.

The more I move the renderings around, the more the story starts to make sense—old row homes with front steps, front porches, and gardens mixed along with specialty shops and businesses of a by-gone era. It’s my Louisville—the one I grew up in—only the way Mac always painted it in my mind. He talked about his plans, the things he was going to do to his house, and how it would inspire others to do the same.