I had just gone to bed for the night when I heard the explosion. I bolted to my feet in time for the shockwave. The house shook. My wife woke up, confused.
I was stepping into our yard when the sirens sounded, surrounding from all directions. Down the street, someone wandered around with a flashlight. We did not see smoke right away. The circumstances created a terrific sense of being in a war zone. We went online and eventually discovered a house had exploded, less than three kilometres away. Our first thought was, of course, a Meth Lab, someone failing spectacularly at being Walter White. We quickly learned it had been the result of an accident and a subsequent gas explosion.
My wife has a friend who used to live one street over from the house that exploded, and she followed the chatter on the online scanner into the witching hours.
A story emerges over the days that follow:
Queens starts at Woodman Avenue, and runs…