Any normal person would have assumed that they had gotten lost, that they were in the wrong place, that they were on the wrong street.     Any normal person would have gone back, retraced his steps, looked for familiar landmarks.  An entire place of business, lot and all, does not just disappear overnight.  It's impossible.  Even if, say, the place was burnt down, sacked by vandals or ripped from its moorings by a highly destructive and<em>extremely</em>specific tornado, there would be<em>something</em>.   A lot of wreckage.  An empty lot.  Flotsam and jetsam, and other things ending in -sam.<br/><br/>But Norm, despite all protestations to the contrary, was not a normal person.  He was the first to arrive.  Normally, he was punctual, but today a series of freak occurrences involving a power outage, a trespassing cat, and a balcony window that mysteriously slid shut behind him conspired to contribute to his tardiness.  He stopped in the empty alleyway, clutching his unopened umbrella in one hand, his suitcase in the other.  He glanced left, at the derelict warehouse that was unit 16.  Then he glanced right, at the stylized sign announcing Tyneside Windows.<br/><br/>Cautiously, he advanced into the alleyway.  He read the message on the brick wall.   He turned, slowly, half-expecting to see binoculars peering down at him from high windows or from through the tinted dash of a black, unmarked automobile parked on the other side of the street.<br/><br/>The important thing, Norm told himself, was not to panic.  Someone had left that message there for a reason.   As soon as he figured out what that reason was, he would be better equipped to deal with the situation on his terms.