Stupid seems better, because we are smart. But if we’re so smart, perhaps we can think most like the smart man. The stupid man—what to expect? The stupid man, as we imagine him, is slow and plodding but carries a cleaver and breaks down the door in the night, his act so senseless that we have no defense. We shiver, and as if we’ve called him, a pebble raps against the window, the sound short and sharp, and as we begin to think it’s nothing, something strikes the glass again. Lisa begins to cry. Not loud. We know bad things have happened to Lisa.
