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Orlando was putting his breakfast bowl on the shelf above the sink when the wall suddenly shook so hard it moved an inch towards him, bowing in the middle as if it were flexible. It sprang back into place, and the crockery on the shelf came flying at him on the rebound. He was bombarded with dishes and plates, one of which bounced off his forehead.
The dishes crashed to the floor, and Orlando stood stock still for a few seconds, stunned by the blow and only dimly aware that the shaking of the wall had been accompanied by a loud shrieking noise like a storming wind that stopped exactly when the wall returned to normal. He could hear, faintly, what sounded like screams--not very close but within the next few blocks.
His knees began to feel weak, and he had to sit down on a chair at the kitchen table for a minute. He put his head between his hands and held it still, and forced himself not to cry. He sat there for no more than two minutes until he had composed himself and his knees felt normal again, then he stood slowly and took a deep breath and ran out of his flat and down ten flights of stairs and out into the street.
He was sure that he would find something bloody. He did not have to guess. He knew.
He had been through this kind of thing before.