A small plane carrying a banner for an insurance company starts having air trouble. The pilot maneuvers as best as he can until he can't.
Maybe he says, "We're going down." Maybe all you can hear is a grunt and the air moving out between his teeth.
He looks down and sees houses, trees, curving suburban lanes. He aims toward a street that has at least some green space on one side. The mechanical fails, or maybe it's his aim.
He glides over a back yard and Thwap! crashes into the second floor of a house. Drywall and plywood and insulation crash down on him. The plane tilts, ready to plummet down to the yard below. He smells fuel, feels heat.
He exits the plane, realizes he's in someone's home. He calls out, maybe saying "Is anyone here? Hello?" No one answers.
The fire grows more intense. He bangs down the steps, coughing out the door. He looks over his shoulder and stops.
What the fuck? This house looks familiar.
He knows where the hose is, so he grabs it. He can hear the sirens in the distance, growing louder on approach. He tries fanning at the flames with the hose. The flames win.
When the firefighters arrive, he collapses. He tells the paramedics, "I used to live in that house." They check his pupils, examine his scalp for contusions. Rather than believe him, they suspect head injury.
"Of all the houses I could crash into," he says, "I crash into one I used to live in."
And yes, this is a true story.