That'd be wonderful.

Okay, I took a drink of water.

Shotgun Rabies.

Better to die than disobey.

That's the lesson my father-in-law conveyed when he told the story of his brother's miserable end.

I imagine that brother from the last century and the moment at which his ordinary life was made extraordinary by the dog's spittle and sway, the lolling head, the slow approach, the pain of the bite, the terror in the dog's frantic eyes, then the boy's fear of water on an island comprised of more water than air, then the sternness of a father who didn't want to know the truth if it meant that his son had trespassed and disobeyed.

For me, that brother's death was a lesson in chaos, how it whips children into the air until they are hot, distant stars, so far beyond our control, almost unrecognizable when their disasters occur, and that the disasters are so frequent and so proximate, even here in a town best known for its salted peanuts and insurance policies.

I mean, so art is actually affecting people in a very concrete way, changing brain pathways, and that sounds very concrete.