We lost the 84th Street intersection last night.
It’s not empty, though. The street is covered with rough grass extending from the churchyard. Granite slabs poke from the new patch like teeth.
Marcus and I stare out the window. It’s happening everywhere, graveyards like the Gobi desert, creeping from their fenced-off worlds.
“Will it stop?” Marcus whispers.
A truck revs, then vaults onto the patch. Gains purchase. A sinkhole gapes wide and the vehicle tips. The driver leaps free — and the truck is swallowed whole. Grass shoots up over the crumbling dirt like skin over a wound.
“Nope,” I say.
Day 17 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
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