I feel them - violent pieces of tiny glass - poking and itching and mocking the descent back into the earth.

Only this time, I'm not alone.  I slither behind my mother, fogging up my goggles, feeling the fibreglass eating at my wrists and eyebrows as I stuff the old in garbage bags and she fills the space between the studs with new.  "I wish you came when he was home so he'd feel like a dummy," I tell her.

"Who's going to do it if we don't?" she asks.

Right.  "I think he's scared."  And he probably is.  Visions of the roof caving in and all that jazz. Whatever.  I'm pretty sure the dust of disintegrated rat bones is lining my nostrils right now - you don't see me peeing my pants and panicking in a corner, do you?

The worst of it is, when we sell the house, no one will appreciate what we're doing - they'll only notice if we don't - so here we are.

It's hard to talk with hoods tied tight around out heads and masks covering our mouths and noses, so we don't really.  But it's better down here with someone - just to look over and see a pair of boots through the dancing dust.  I'm having visions of spraying a graffiti *PANSY* on the underbelly of our home...you know why...

"Make sure you rub it in," she tells me with a grin as she says goodbye.

"I think I'll write a mean blog," I say.

"Oh, don't be mean - just make us seem like Super Women."

And with a swirl of her red cape she disappears into the night.