That's Carol Moncado's First Night.
How about this one?
Superman hovered briefly over the brownstone on Hyperion Avenue, then shot to a nearby roof, dropping to a sitting position and pulling his cape around him. Drawing his knees to his chest, he huddled with his back to the raging wind while he stared sightlessly at the rooftops below.
Something was wrong, terribly wrong, in Metropolis. It wasn't just that the city was suddenly more violent and chaotic than Clark had ever seen it, or that no one seemed to remember Superman, his every appearance engendering panic and hysteria. Or that far from being grateful for his assistance, the police and other residents of Metropolis were uncharacteristically hostile and surly.
No, the terrible wrongness in Metropolis, the wrongness that caused that tight knot in his stomach, stemmed from the fact that *strangers were living in the house at 348 Hyperion Avenue.*
Wendy
