The Bystander sees a line of police officers staring down into the water.
The Ambulance Driver sees the worst kind of death, the kind that could have been prevented. She radios in to the hospital: “You gave me the wrong address.”
The Boy in the Back Seat can’t see. His eyelids are bloated with water and his body is folded over at the waist, floating upwards. Three of his fingers are broken from punching and clawing at the glass. Dark purple clouds are gathering under his skin.
The Police Officer sees a car half in water. He holds a clipboard, telephone, cameras clicking in his face and a rope waiting at home so that he may run away from his shame.
The Person Waiting At Home is Mom. She is tapping her finger against the screen of her phone frantically, as if the tapping will elicit a response. She is reading the message over and over again, until with eyes closed, she can see the words still: “Mom, this might be my last chance to tell you I love you.”
I see red tape and Confucius’ beard on fire.
God isn’t even looking.