From the third to the fourth floor, there was a secret passageway; that was always my favorite. Cora and I would run up and down the little concrete hall that nobody else knew about, hearing the neighbors through the thin walls asking, “What’s that noise, rats again?” We’d chuckle and wind up on the fourth floor, where the richer people lived. They weren’t always kind to us, but one time an elderly woman there gave us the best apple we’d ever tasted. I wonder if she still remembers that; I’ll have to ask her the next time I see her. She should be here, watching them tear it down. Watching our memories displaced, along with hundreds of people, young and old, that still lived there. The building was red brick and stone with white accents, like a Christmas stocking, yet to us, it was a friend. Of course, it’s always sad to see your friend die.