Hannah and I weren’t home when the man stepped in front of the train that runs behind our house. But there was the back of our fence and top of our apple tree on the 10 o’clock news. There was the dusty wash, the riverbed rock and dry chaparral we traversed on sunset walks. And beyond the newscaster with perfect hair, there were the dozen little yellow flags, scattered about like confetti. Evidence flags. Markers for pieces to collect. Hannah had seen enough. She clicked off the TV and sat down to cry for the man who stepped in front of the train that runs behind our house.

Read it in Monkeybicycle