The house I was in, made of brick and as large as The Flamingo, was about to be moved to a spot a mile or two away, although I was under the impression it would be very different.

I never left the room I was in, but as time passed I puzzled and wondered how such a large house could fit onto a truck and be moved in one piece. Every now and then I would sense that it was about to topple over or crumble from the stress of the movement, or be knocked down by a bridge or in an accident.

The journey seemed to take hours, which bothered me quite a bit because of the distance. I fretted about the stability of the structure, the time it was taking, and an appointment I was committed to keeping and was close to missing. I felt that I wanted to miss it.

I remained oddly passive, awaiting the building’s fate and my own, which never seemed to come but which hung out there like a poisoned carrot on a stick.