Jesse Durabill lived in the basement. Inaccurate? Perhaps. Six-thousand W. Rambling Rd was hardly a residence at all. In fact, his only neighbors thought they were all alone.

Just a door in the floor — heavy and wooden with iron handles — it laid nearly flat 50 meters from the road. Tumbleweeds loped across the dusty field as the occasional truck rambled past. Folks didn’t poke around in these parts — merely another transit mile from rural Saxville to the bustling Woodland Ridge.

But Jesse had canned goods. He had a can opener, rolls of toilet paper, and a big old radio. The War of the Worlds upstairs frightened him. Each truck shook him a little more. He bristled with discontent as his walls shook — the rusty spork falling helplessly from his trembling fingertips. His long, battered rifle peered out from around his pantry door. Polishing was the only real joy. He loaded and unloaded the weapon each day as his father had done before — the memories he clung to — tapping his foot and whistling dixie nervously.

The day was like any other with one exception: the boy. Rattling woke him from his fitful nap.

“Hello, Auntie Em?”

A shadowed face, haloed by the ten o’clock sun, peered through the crack between the heavy doors.

“Mother of…” mumbled Jesse.

The doors clattered back together — the wide-eyed boy scampered off.

In the rocking chair, his breathing quickened. His atrophied legs enlarged with adrenaline. He slammed the rotting ladder into position and worked his way up. In the sun, his eyes were useless — a frantic mole lost by day. Frenzied footsteps moved out of earshot and he realized his rifle was still below. He squinted tightly, but could only make out hazy shapes in contrast. A great sweeping breeze rushed through his shoulder length hair as though god had sat on his head.

A voice told him, “You own the land no more than you own the sky.”

A full Saul grin gripped his pain-wrinkled face nearly two seconds before finding himself within the windshield of an SUV.