Long time no see, all. Here’s to more posts coming from frigid PVD.

It looks like hard, cold work. He’s opening windows. But they’ve been bricked over for years.

The wind whips down Brook St, cutting through black beanie, ragged purple sweatshirt, and tan work pants. He traces the outline of one brick with a loud, buzzing Skil-Saw, gritting his teeth and blinking against the flecks of mortar flying from the wall. At one foot away, the sound is deafening. From 20 ft, it’s an overwhelming buzz. From a block away, it whines like an inquisitive mosquito.

When he’s done, he hefts the light sledge with his leather-gloved right hand and hammers the brick—“POCK!”

It doesn’t budge.

He tries again, throwing his upper body into the motion—“BAP!”

Still nothing.

One more heave, and this time a satisfying “KRNCH.” The brick is loose in its joint; the mortar at its corners has failed. He stretches, walks into the building, and 10 seconds later the brick bounds from the wall to the sidewalk, propelled from behind by a firm hammer-poke.

The February wind whisks the red dust away. A brick’s worth of inky blackness peers out from inside the low-slung building. On to the next one.