• 12:30 A.M.
  I am an American

As usual, my late night trip to QFC was punctuated by someone violating societal norms. This time it was a crying girl. She walked through the radar-activated doors out of the downpour, knit cap soaked in rain, just a sliver of a face twisted up in pain, chin and mouth covered by a shaking fist with corners of a napkin peeking out, soaked in red blood. "Are you okay?" asked my cashier. She shook her head once, no. I bought my oreos and wondered what to do.