THE FIRST SLIP

I was thirty-four years old, standing in Room 214 of the North High School wing, holding a vial of mercury in my left hand and a textbook in my right.

The experiment had been designed perfectly. The calculations were flawless. But I had forgotten one variable: the tremor in my own hand.

The vial slipped.

It did not shatter. It did not spill. It simply fell—and in that fall, I chose not to catch it. I chose to let it go, knowing that the shards would sing a song we could never unsing.

I did not sweep the shards.

I poured the seam.