We missed the morning school bus, its yellow smear blinking through the dawn. That was the last straw. I slammed the juice on the counter and the light shattered. Why didn’t the children move faster? And toward the car? The light swayed and dripped shards that were nothing like feathers, nothing like tears. When cars from the onramp slid into us, a long slow backward curve, piles of glass rose up in a wave. So we walked the rest of the way in a deep trench, while workmen dumped sand back in behind us. At school, we played a game about cheese. We said a pledge by pictures of soldiers. My son picked a long hair off my sleeve, stretched it until it broke, then said, This isn’t very strong. In the principal’s office, a video loop played–a deer collapsed, one leg in a trap, on a manicured lawn. Then a thin man begged while someone broke his nose. At that point, we covered our eyes. Behind us on the entire wall, a maroon paper sculpture pulsed, swelling and deflating, its wheezing stoma packed with globes. It wasn’t a heart, wasn’t a lung, wasn’t anything recognizable.