I am staring at my childhood home — a building that was bulldozed more than a decade ago. The shell of an old Chevy Malibu rests in the front yard. The weeds have long since claimed it, weaving in and out of the rusty compartments. I always assumed that one day the roots would pull the vehicle all the way down into the ground, returning it to the earth.

The neighborhood kids tell stories about my home. On Halloween, they don’t walk down the long, dark driveway to ring our doorbell. In those days I imagine myself as an animal in a zoo exhibit. I go about my business from inside the enclosure, occasionally peering out and wondering about the lives of the gangly primates on the other side. They terrify me. I spend my time indoors, tinkering. Finding things to