Suddenly, I remembered I had a survey to fill out. I came home from work, relieved to be back. The sun had set innocuously about an hour earlier.

Glancing at the molded plastic chair, the only place to sit other than on the bed or on the floor, it occurred to me that my apartment was a slave to the heat and not to me. I was indignant: it was my apartment!

I paused for a moment with no particular thought in my head. The heat played magic with the room's contents. Following the basic laws of physics, everything began rising and the whole top floor of the apartment building detached itself gracefully from the rest, then floated away in the self-sealing summer haze like a patty of lint from one of the clothes dryers in the musty basement.

Suddenly, I remembered I had a survey to fill out.

I was scared.