The SUV sat motionless against a tree on a south Minneapolis street, its engine quiet, angled as if it had simply run out of gas. Except the windshield bore a small shattered star, delicate and sharp, like a snowflake pressed into glass. Cold Minnesota air leaked through the fracture, settling over the still body inside. The car became a sealed room, a thin shell holding death in place, surrounded by the stuffed animals of the woman’s children.
In the street, witnesses screamed. Not in words, but in sounds that come before language, as reality breaks faster than thought.
