It took me three days to patch Old Olson's floors. I offered to fix the wheels on his wagon instead, but he was determined to stay until the end. It started in his garden. The ground softened, shifted, and was finally swallowed alongside the dying weeds by a small rift. When morning light hit, his backyard had been replaced by a gaping maw. I rushed to build fences and reinforced structures, but when the sun laid to rest, even they sank below. The hole had grown bigger. I should've sent him away then, broken wagon or not. This morning, Olson's cottage was gone without a trace, devoured by the darkness. First, I hoped he escaped — since I heard no crying or screaming. But as it turns out, the maw swallows even sound. I'm putting down the hammer and packing my bags. I won't wait to be swallowed like Olson and the weeds.