“STREET CLEANING. NO PAHKING ON THE ODD NUMBAHED SIDE. YOU WILL BE TAGGED AND TOWED.”

It’s loud enough you hear earlier repetitions as a vague buzz in the distance, then crescendoing to a blare on your block, then receding with agonizing slowness like some hellish echo. And the whole time you thinking, awake now and very annoyed, “I don’t even own a car.”

And if you manage to get back to sleep, it soon jolts you awake again, and again.