Lance pushed the door open. The door scraped on light blue carpet, old ornate, worn-out carpet from a past paradise. It wasn't the door and the carpets first introduction, they were old friends. Jen followed. The room was prepared for them. A smile scraped across Lance’s face and reflected in the glass on the oven door. Jen didn’t see the smile; she did see the dust, though. Her finger slipped across the bench top, Lance looked on and the smile slipped off his face like an avalanche; a safe and predicted avalanche. A controlled landslide set off by explosives, planted strategically, deep under the surface, long before.