Today’s expression:

“Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

Meaning: People who are morally questionable shouldn’t criticize others. (Origin)

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Inhaling is like swallowing a mouthful of water through my nose. It’s another scorcher. Flakes of dead and dying grass ride heat waves up from the ground where my shoes set them free, up on their heavenly journeys. The downhill slant leading away from the porch to the back edge of our property encourages me into the shade of the abandoned shed.

I pause outside the entrance and check for any drastic changes in the southeastern lean of the structure since the last time I went in. Seeing nothing more threatening than spider webs, I step onto the particle board covering the threshold that has rotted away into the dirt. Compared to the summer thickness outside, the air is dustier if not drier in the first room of the two-story construction of wood and nails.

Inside, I watch my feet and guide their dodging steps. Broken glass from busted fluorescent bulbs, fallen planks with rusty nails, miscellaneous firework debris, shelving and their tools and paint cans, along with other inanimate objects are of secondary concern. What might stir from beneath them occupy my attention. I step on wood and then on dirt, a creak and then a pft. My ears are attuned to the smallest of sounds, including a buzzing from the opposite end of the room where a wasp nest hangs from the corner.

Venturing on to the ground floor’s other room, I duck to miss the low-hanging board, simultaneously stepping over the only surviving threshold. Though I could see through the holes in the wall from the first room, I peek to the darkest corner and hold my breath. Finding no one lurking in the shadows, I step fully into the storage area and scan the shelves of shingles, tin cans partly filled with screws and washers and bolts, spray paint cans, spare lumber, and unidentifiable rust-covered objects.

I hear another buzzing and feel the space close in on me. The wasp is suddenly interested in my movements, so I crunch into a squat and take two quick steps back the way I came. I’m holding my breath again.

Shielding my face, I leap into the entryway and plant my foot in the dirt, the surest option. With the final lunge into openness, I squint my eyes and distance myself from the sting of confinement. I catch my breath walking up the homeward slant.

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Brain teaser:

What are the next three numbers in this series?

4, 6, 12, 18, 30, 42, 60, 72, 102, 108, ?, ?, ?