My friend shows me his diagram, the aftermath of an incident that had occurred this morning, minutes before he chanced upon the scene. These rectangles are blockades police set up. Past them, a point where a man cradled a boy with bloody legs. This square is the taxi with its driver’s door smashed. Between the polygons, pieces of pan de sal , scattered ovals. He wants me to help solve the puzzle, draw arrows between figures, calculate the size and shape of disaster. As if we had been in it, or in on it. In the end, we remain students of the city, baffled and impatient, ready to turn the page. Inconclusive , we say—though something must end, something else must carry on. I do suspect the bread, still warm from the oven, continued to bake in the afternoon sun.