I always tell Ki that it’s a dangerous thing sending me to work the dump, not because I’ll get run over by a truck, burn my legs and feet, or fall into a pool of toxic sludge—though all those are possibilities. It’s dangerous because my thoughts get away from themselves. Mixed with emotion, they pile up like the garbage that surrounds me. They stack layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, month after month—crushing, festering, smoldering. One day something is certain to combust.
