Maybe it's something like witnessing two men, fathers, doing and saying everything men do and say in the moments before violence, at 3:20 p.m. on a Thursday, in the circle drive that borders the Outdoor Classroom where the pre-schoolers play, and saying only, before shutting the car door and seeking help, "Our children. Our children are right here."

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Maybe it's that sunk desperate whirling static chaos in the twice-spilled coffee in two minutes, the hour burned searching for a password to an account that's irrelevant anyway after all always already.

 

Maybe it's that telegraphed silence that means a friend's forgetting your rhythms.

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Maybe it's a sudden awareness, with certainty, that there are only stories, which is mostly good, except when there's no one needing a story right now. 

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Or maybe it's the small lie: "Yeah, I'm getting used to the flames."