February. A layer of ice formed on the highways while the math teacher filled the blackboard with angular shapes. Our attention was turned, as always, to the windows. Bulging clouds. Sleet on pines. Cold birds eyeing colder birds hunched under branches. Then—on the road—a van spun sideways. We rose from our desks. It skidded into a ditch, crunching to a stop in snow. But slowly. Almost gently. Then, around the curve—a red sports car. Doomed, we knew with a thrill. The driver touched the brakes, the wheels locked, the car drifted off the road and nudged the van. It moved in slow motion, left no dent. A white sedan joined them. A blue truck. And another. Then, to our delight, a telephone pole fell, dragging its cape of wires. Dogs ran from the neighborhoods, jumped onto the windshields. The 7-11, where we stole cigarettes, crumpled and rolled into the pile. Then Western Skateland fell, the musty roller skates we had stood inside for countless birthday parties rattling onto the scene. We began to turn to each other. Are you seeing this? As usual, we did not make eye contact, looking instead at each other’s bodies, our gangling arms and bellies, our feet, all the wrong size. The teacher held his chalk. Eagles tumbled out of the sky and landed in cornfields with soft thuds.