Oliver surveyed his beloved street from his front porch, a glass of lemonade in his right hand, an easy smile etched onto his boyish face. It was one of those delightfully crisp days in early fall, with a sky so clear that a person might have seen all the way to Chicago, if only the world was flat. Setting down the lemonade, Oliver unrolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt. With evening fast approaching, the autumn chill had begun to bite. Off to his left, Lake Michigan made a glittering appearance—a sun-speckled artwork framed by the street’s townhomes. The charcoal smell of the evening air filled Oliver with a pleasant nostalgia for his childhood. But Oliver did not wish to be young again—he was having far too much fun being twenty-seven.

As he stood staring at the distant water, a door in a townhome across the street squeaked open. Oliver’s eyes followed the sound to an equally contented, equally young couple. The pair made their way down the front steps of their townhome—which was identical in layout to Oliver’s, merely reversed—and through their well-kept yard. They crossed the tranquil, car-free street and arrived at Oliver’s front porch just as Oliver was finishing his lemonade.

“I hope we’re not the first to arrive,” said the woman in a warm, bubbly voice. Her name was Molly, and Oliver had known both her and her husband, James, since kindergarten. In fact, no fewer than seven of Oliver’s friends lived in the neighborhood. Not by chance, mind you—they had planned it that way. When word had spread of a new subdivision being built in town—The Townhomes at Turnberry—Oliver and his friends had jumped at a chance to live in close proximity to each other. One—his best friend Paul—lived so close as to share a wall with Oliver.

Oliver held his front door open for Molly and James, then followed them into his kitchen. Over the next half hour, two more couples arrived, as well as Paul. The latter came alone, as was to be expected—Paul hadn’t had a serious girlfriend since college. As far as Oliver could tell, he didn’t even attempt to date.

Oliver and his friends seated themselves around a modest wooden table in Oliver’s dining room. Oliver pulled the foil off a bottle of wine and uncorked it. He began to fill his friends’ glasses in sequence. When he got to Molly, she waved it away.

“None for me,” said Molly, a proud twinkle in her eye.

Their friend Clare raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Molly, turn down wine? Well that’s a new one. Wait, you’re not—”

“We are!” interrupted Molly with a wide grin, while passing her hand over her stomach. “Due in February!”

“Pregnant!?” said Oliver, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.

“Don’t act so surprised, Ollie,” said James. “No one here is getting any younger.”

Oliver recovered enough to nod politely, and he continued filling the wine glasses, but he could not stop thinking about Molly’s announcement for the remainder of the dinner.

Come ten o’clock, Oliver followed Molly and James out onto the porch. Everyone else had left, except for Paul, who was sitting on Oliver’s deck glider.

Oliver joined Paul on the glider. Truth be told, his head was still spinning, and it wasn’t from the alcohol—he’d only had one glass over the course of the entire evening. He was still thinking about Molly’s announcement, and then what James had said: “No one here is getting any younger.” Oliver had never before questioned his youth. It was just there, like the sun in the morning, or the moon at night. Sure, he knew they would all age. But that was a future problem, and they were firmly in the present. They were only twenty-seven, after all. Which meant they were still supposed to be thinking about their own lives… right? Of course they would all get married and have children. Oliver had just supposed they would all wait until their thirties, as seemed to be the societal trend of late.

Startled out of his reverie by Molly’s sudden laughter, Oliver’s eyes left the porch and, by chance, landed right where his and Paul’s homes met—the shared wall. Something was on the wall, he noticed. It seemed someone had taken a permanent marker and drawn a black line from the roofline all the way down to the ground. But how could a person even do such a thing without a ladder? Oliver left the porch and moved closer to the mysterious line. He turned on the flashlight of his phone and shined the light onto the mysterious marking. To his amazement, it wasn’t marker at all—it was much, much worse: It was a split in the stud; a deep, clean fissure, running as far into the wood as Oliver could see.

“Paul!” called Oliver. “Come see this!”

Paul walked down the steps of the porch and joined Oliver at the wall.

“You see this split?” said Oliver.

“Huh,” said Paul. “Well, I doubt that it’s structural. No cause for alarm.”

“But these townhomes aren’t even five years old!” said Oliver.

“True. Not great craftsmanship. We can inform the HOA in the morning.”

Their inspection was interrupted by James and Molly saying goodnight. Soon after, Paul left, and Oliver was left alone on his porch, resisting the urge to study the split in the wood once more. At 11pm, he gave his street one final approving nod, then went inside.

It was Friday evening.

*          *          *

Saturday morning, Oliver woke early and without a hangover. He was pleased by his temperance at the dinner party—a year ago he would have overindulged. Surely this was proof he was maturing.

After making coffee, Oliver walked out onto his porch. It was another beautiful day in an autumn chock full of them, with the morning sun painting the deck of his porch gold, and the smell of the lake mingling with the smell of his coffee. Suddenly remembering the crack in his townhouse wall, Oliver went down the porch steps and around the side. On reflection, he needn’t have bothered to get so close: what had been a hairline split the evening before had grown, and there was now a full foot between his house and Paul’s. Even more confounding, each side of the previously conjoined wall looked finished, as if the townhomes had never even touched at all.

Oliver gazed at the gap in disbelief. Minutes passed. His coffee grew cold. In his periphery, Oliver saw Paul approaching.

“How’s it hanging, Ollie,” said Paul languidly, stepping up beside Oliver.

Oliver did not respond.

“Hey, you okay?” asked Paul.

“Paul—the houses.”

“Yeah?” said Paul.

“They’re not touching.”

Paul nodded. “… right?”

Oliver looked to Paul. “Paul, they are townhomes. They share a wall. Our houses were touching last night.”

Paul put a finger to his chin. “I mean, our houses have always been close,” he said. “But are you sure they were actually touching?”

Oliver couldn’t believe it. He’d have thought Paul was playing a trick on him, save for the impossibility of moving an entire house—silently—over the course of a single night.

Even as Oliver struggled to process his unlikely morning, a woman came out of Paul’s house and made her way over to where the two men stood. Paul smiled at her.

“Hey, babe,” said Paul.

“Hey honey,” said the woman, positioning herself under Paul’s right arm. “Hey Oliver, how are you?”

If Oliver was confused by the gap between houses, he was dumfounded by the appearance of the woman. “I’m… I’m well. How are you?”

“No complaints,” said the woman lightly. She turned to Paul. “Don’t spend all morning talking, now. We’ve got to get to Home Depot for the bathrooms, and then to my Mom’s for lunch.”

“Right, right,” said Paul. “No worries, I’ll be in shortly.”

The woman kissed Paul on the cheek, said goodbye to Oliver, and returned to the house. When the woman had left, Oliver stared at Paul expectantly. When Paul said nothing, Oliver held out an arm toward Paul’s house, begging for an explanation.

“What?” said Paul.     

“What? Who is that? And how does she know my name?”

Paul’s brow furrowed. He looked toward his house, then back to Oliver. “Megan?” he said. “How does Megan know your name?”

“Yeah.”

“Umm, gee, Oliver, I don’t know. Probably from meeting you, over and over?” said Paul dryly.

“But… she wasn’t at the party.”

“Party?”

“Yeah.”

“What party?”

“What party?!”

“Wait, do you mean that dinner party at your house?”

“Of course.”

“Oh. Well, I met Megan later.”

“You met her later?”

“Yes. You know all this, Ollie.”

“You met her later,” Oliver repeated, this time to himself.

“Besides, that party was ages ago,” added Paul.

“The party was last night!”

“Yeah, okay,” said Paul, now grinning. “I think I’d be hungover today if that party was last night. But hey, buddy, I have to run. Enjoy your day.”

Flummoxed by his interaction with Paul, Oliver went over to see Molly and James. “Oh hi, Oliver!” said Molly, opening the front door. “Long time, no see.”

Oliver smiled, unsure of what to make of Molly’s comment.

“You wouldn’t believe my morning, Molly. Is James around?”

“Yeah, he’s poking around here somewhere.”

Just then, James entered the living room. “Oh, hey Ollie. Nice to see you. Was just putting Lily down for her noon siesta.”

“Hey James,” said Oliver, “I was just about to tell Molly the craziest—” Oliver stopped talking mid-sentence. “Lily? Who is Lily?” he asked.

James looked slightly hurt. “Goodness, has it been that long? Our two-year-old daughter, Oliver.” James winked. “I won’t let her know you forgot her name.”

“But… Molly isn’t due for months!”

Molly’s eyes widened. She looked to James. “James,” she said sharply. “I thought we agreed not to tell anyone?”

“But, I didn’t, Molly! Honest!” James turned to Oliver. “Oliver, how did you know Molly is pregnant?”

“How did I know? You just announced it at my party last night.”

James laughed. “Party? Buddy, we haven’t been to a party in two years. Believe me, I think I’d remember.” James’s eyes suddenly showed recognition. “You know, now that you mention it, I do recall announcing Molly’s first pregnancy at your party.”

“First…” repeated Oliver vacantly.

“And now we have a second bun in the oven, though it’s supposed to be a secret, so if you could keep it under wraps…”


Oliver left the house in a daze. He felt it necessary to review all the morning’s changes, just to keep them in order in his mind: Paul’s townhouse no longer touches my own; Paul has a girlfriend named Megan; James and Molly have a two-year-old named Lily, and Molly is pregnant again. How could he have forgotten all of this? Why did his mind insist on telling him he’d learned about Molly’s first child only last night? Oliver didn’t take any medications. He didn’t drink to excess. Drugs, never. So then what was the cause of these… hallucinations? Is that what they were? Whatever the reason, it certainly wasn’t chemical.

On the way back to his own house, Oliver once again looked toward the gap between his and Paul’s houses. When he did, he abruptly stopped walking. Because there was no gap. The two homes were fully six feet apart.

“Hey Ollie, glad I caught you,” said Paul, waving Oliver over to his property.

Oliver walked over, never once taking his eyes off the new alleyway.

“Would it be okay with you if we put a dog run in the side yard here?” said Paul. “Seems like such a waste of space, as is. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“You’re getting a dog?” asked Ollie absentmindedly, still inspecting the space between the houses, a look of resignation on his previously shocked face.

“Getting?” Just then a yellow lab jumped up onto the fence separating Oliver and Paul’s property. Wait—fence? thought Oliver. Since when is there a fence between my and Paul’s houses?

“Don’t bark, Rufus!” said Paul to the yellow lab. “C’mon, you know Ollie. Good boy.”

“Dog run,” said Ollie, nodding. “Yes. Good. A dog run. Good boy. Good Rufus. You know, it’s been a long morning, I think I need a nap. See you later, Paul.”

Oliver left Paul and headed back into his house. In his kitchen, he stopped at the sink, took a long drink of water from his cupped hands, and rubbed cold water into his red eyes. He then sat at his kitchen table for a very long time. Eventually he made his way upstairs. Oliver did not generally nap, but today he’d make an exception.

After the nap, Oliver felt better. He must have had some bad food at his party. Yes, that was it. He had some bad food—or maybe the wine had been corked? And some bacteria had snuck in. Some bug. Yes. All of the strangeness of the previous 24-hours was the result of some temporary digestive imbalance.

Still, it was with great trepidation that Oliver left his bedroom, descended his stairs, and walked outside. He was afraid to look toward Paul’s house, and for several minutes, he didn’t. But he knew he would have to eventually, and so, with much dread, he turned his head to the left.

Oliver wasn’t so much sickened by what he saw as confused. Because he could not see Paul’s house. Where there had been a fence earlier in the afternoon, there was now a line of twenty-foot pine trees obscuring everything in sight. Even the dog run was gone—if it had ever existed?—replaced by thirty feet of meticulously maintained side-yard.

With the slow, heavy walk of a doomed prisoner, Oliver left his porch, pushed his way through the bushy pines, and rang the bell of Paul’s house. A small boy answered, probably three or four years old.

“Hi Owiver,” the boy said.

“Hello,” said Oliver tentatively. “Is Pau—is your father home?

The boy shook his head.

“Mom?”

The boy shook his head again.

“Who’s watching you?”

“Wiwy.”

“Wiwy… Lily?”

The boy nodded.

Oliver swallowed hard. “Could I talk to Lily?”

The boy nodded again, then disappeared into the house. Oliver waited on the front porch, his teeth clenched, his stomach knotted. A few seconds later a teenager appeared at the front door. She had pink streaks in her hair, and there was a small diamond stud in her left nostril.

“Lily?” said Oliver weakly.

“Oh, hey Uncle Ollie. What’s up?”

Oliver swallowed hard. He said nothing.

“Uh, what’s up, Uncle Ollie?” repeated Lily, eyeing him skeptically.

Oliver began to back slowly away from the porch. After several steps, he felt his knees buckle. He sat on the ground.

“Jesus, Ollie, are you okay?” said Lily.

“I think… I think I’m unwell,” said Oliver, rubbing his eyes. He stood up, brushed grass clippings off his pants. “I need to go to bed.”

*          *          *

Sunday morning, Oliver did not get up at 8am, like he usually did. Or 9am. Or 10am. He lay in bed past noon. It was only when restlessness and hunger combined into a powerful motivator that he left his bedroom and made his way downstairs. As he moved about his house, he made sure not to look out the window. Any window. Trouble was, he was running out of food. He normally did his grocery shopping on Saturdays, but yesterday he hadn’t accomplished a single errand. And so, at 5pm, he went into his garage, intent on making the trip to town.

He did not get far. The battery in his car was dead. As a doornail. It didn’t even sputter. Oliver got out of his car (which he noticed was rusting around the doors—he’d bought it new last year).

Well… I can walk to town, thought Oliver. Less than a mile each way. I’ll just get less stuff than usual.

Oliver opened the garage door. He ventured outside.

He froze.

He stood in a forest. In every direction, starting in his own yard, stood thick, unyielding woodland. The overpowering scent of pine filled the air—the smell of lake was completely gone. Oliver walked to the edge of the road, looked down his street. No longer did he see other houses. All he saw was trees. He turned to his left and began walking in the direction of Paul’s house. He walked tentatively at first, then more quickly. But he could not find Paul’s house. He could not find any houses. At some point he lost track of the road beneath him. Faster and faster he walked, deeper and deeper into the woods. After fifteen minutes he stopped. He feared getting lost out there. He decided the best thing to do was to turn around and walk straight back. He did as much, and relief flooded over him when he came upon his road, and then his own house amidst the profusion of pines.

Oliver entered his garage, got his bike off the wall rack. The chain had rusted and the tires were deflated, but the wheels still spun. Oliver found his bike pump in a pile of clutter. He pumped up the tires. He oiled the chain. He wheeled the bike down his tree-lined driveway and he turned onto the same road from where he could once see Lake Michigan. How far to town, he wondered? Only one way to find out. He would bike until he smelled the lake. He would bike until he found a friend.

– J.D. Strunk