My first mock death was a train ride in the mountains, a comedy show put on for tourists. I was four, standing in the seat to watch. When the man shot his wife, I couldn’t understand why everyone laughed, why no one tried to stop him. The second was my mother, one of our family’s pistols raised to her head, then pointed at my father, then back to her. They yelled as though there were no guns. Later, when she asked why I couldn’t sleep, I told her about the murderers waiting outside, watching for the lights to go out. You know I’d never really do it she said. Years after, when the guns were stolen, the clock my parents received as a wedding gift smashed, our drawers of pictures dumped on the floor, I was relieved. The thief must have known us, known how long to wait, how long we would be away from the house. They must have known what to leave and what to take.