He could feel the church vibrating in its aftermath, the faint din of screams and shouts outside seeping in through the shuttered doors. He took a deep breath and stared about the vestibule. It made him sick to his stomach. This used to be his home, the place for years in which he’d slept and eaten, prayed and worked. Now it was the victim of a great evil trying to tear down its walls. And to think up until yesterday, I'd assumed this to be a war waged against corporate America. How wrong I was… He saw the antechamber bulletin board, hanging askew by one rusty nail, the glass shattered, pointed shards shredding two month-old activity announcements. The threadbare carpet beneath his feet was ripped from the weighty tugs of construction equipment. Splinters of pinewood lay about like tiny carcasses. The only thing that remained untouched was Henry Miller's foldout table of yellow hardhats and orange vests. There's some protective gear on the table to the right, as soon as you walk in.
