It starts with a sound. In my bungalow on the East Mountain, it was a faint, persistent scratching inside the bedroom wall, right when the house fell silent at night. It wasn’t a storm or the house settling. It was something alive, living in the space between my family and the outside world. Or maybe it’s the sudden, sinking sight of a line of ants trailing from under your back...
You walk into your kitchen in your Durand flat and see a single ant. Then three. Then a line marching across the counter. Your stomach does that little drop. Or maybe it’s the sound—a soft scratching inside the wall of your Westdale home when the lights go out. It’s more than annoyance. It’s a feeling of violation. Your safe space has been breached. In a city like...
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