The students shuffled in dribs and drabs into the first class of eleventh grade. Some had arrived ten minutes early, while others entered to the serenade of the late bell. For the most part, they were tired and sunburnt and achingly hormonal. They sighed en masse, preparing wearily to leave butt sweat marks on the blue metal seats. The teacher walked in haggard and hungover, but he managed to hide it quite well, because he had a Masters degree in education. His presence inspired immediate annoyance. A burp rang out, a toaster strudel fanfare.

Wake up one morning and realize that you’ve changed. It’s not just the ravages of time and age: your cranium is now a literal beef patty, encased in a pillow of bun, slathered with onion, ketchup, special sauce. You’re not sure how or why you’ve gotten into this predicament (you almost said pickle) but you know this is something that’s not supposed to happen in life.

My phone buzzed at midnight. “We’ve got a situation,” my boss said. “Someone let the exclamation points out of their cage.”

Grandma was proud of her bruises, said she ‘won ’em square’. I should have pressed further, but she insisted that they were her stories and none of my business. Besides, I was busy burying my husband.

The balloon hovered in the living room. Its string drug along the ground, the black latex beginning to rumple around the knot. It was supposed to be funny. But the half-deflated party favor reminded Amy that she was apparently over the hill, at forty. At least, according to some people.