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says the epidemic itself is starting to come under control.
    I’m early. The convoy hasn’t formed yet. We leave from a different place in town each time. This time we’re meeting behind the American Bowl. Sean is already there, with Sylvia. I take a short detour and drive, for the last time, to the Food Mart.
    The basket is gone, with all its letters to the dead man. So are the American flag and the peace sign. The crucifix is still there, but it’s broken in half. The latest flowers in the wine bottle are half wilted. Rain has muddied the Barbie doll’s dress, and her long blonde hair is a mess. Someone ripped up the anti-NRA stickers. The white candle on a styrofoam plate and the pile of seashells are untouched.
    We are not bacteria. More than survival matters to us, or should. The individual past, which we can’t escape, no matter how hard we try. The individual present, with its unsafe choices. The individual future. And the collective one.
    I search in my pockets. Nothing but keys, money clip, lipstick, tissues, a blue marble I must have stuck in my pocket when I cleaned behind the couch. Jackie likes ma r bles.
    I put the marble beside the candle, check my gun, and drive to join the convoy for the city.
     
     

FAULT LINES
    “If the truth shall kill them, let them die.”
    —Immanuel Kant
     
    The first day of school, we had assault-with-intent in Ms. Kelly’s room. I was in my room next door, 136, laying down the law to 7C math. The usual first-day bullshit: turn in homework every day, take your assigned seat as soon as you walk in, don’t bring a weapon or an abusive attitude into my classroom or you’ll wish you’d never been born. The kids would ignore the first, do the others—for me anyway. Apparently not for Jenny Kelly.
    “Mr. Shaunessy ! Mr. Shaunessy ! Come quick, they throwing chairs next door! The new teacher crying!” A pretty, tiny girl I recognized from last year: Lateesha Je f ferson. Her round face glowed with excitement and sati s faction. A riot! Already! On the very first day!
    I looked over my class slowly, penetratingly, letting my gaze linger on each upturned face. I took my time about it. Most kids dropped their eyes. Next door, something heavy hit the wall. I lowered my voice, so everybody had to strain to hear me.
    “Nobody move while I’m gone. You all got that?”
    Some heads nodded. Some kids stared back, uncertain but cool. A few boys smirked and I brought my unsmiling gaze to their faces until they stopped. Shouts filtered through the wall.
    “Okay, Lateesha , tell Ms. Kelly I’m coming.” She took off like a shot, grinning, Paul Revere in purple leggings and silver shoes.
    I limped to the door and turned for a last look. My st u dents all sat quietly, watching me. I saw Pedro Valesquez and Steven Cheung surreptitiously scanning my jacket for the bulge of a service revolver that of course wasn’t there. My reputation had become so inflated it rivaled the NYC budget. In the hall Lateesha screamed in a voice that could have deafened rock stars, “Mr. Shaunessy coming! You ho’s better stop!”
    In 134, two eighth-grade girls grappled in the middle of the floor. For a wonder, neither seemed to be armed, not even with keys. One girl’s nose streamed blood. The ot h er’s blouse was torn. Both screamed incoherently, nonstop, like stuck sirens. Kids raced around the room. A chair had apparently been hurled at the chalkboard, or at somebody once standing in front of the chalkboard; chair and board had cracked. Jenny Kelly yelled and waved her arms. Lateesha was wrong; Ms. Kelly wasn’t crying. But neither was she helping things a hell of a lot. A few kids on the perimeter of the chaos saw me and fell silent, curious to see what came next.
    And then I saw Jeff Connors, leaning against the wi n dow wall, arms folded across his chest, and his expression as he watched the fighting girls told me everything I needed to know.
    I took a huge breath, letting it fill my lungs. I