It was strange to Max what memories the mind held onto in traumatic experiences. Oddly, newsreels of fresh carnage and tragedy always recalled Shel Silverstein. His books had always been her favorite as a child, and Where the Sidewalk Ends had been the book her mother reading to her when their train car broke from the tracks and splayed its content across the countryside. She could still feel the lurching of her stomach from the inertia of the crashing cars, and then banging around the cabin as the car toppled, rolling partially down the hill.

Dropping the spoon into the cereal bowl with a plop and a clatter, her fingers found their way to where her head had banged against the ceiling, knocking her unconscious for the rest of the tumultuous ride. When she had finally regained con...

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