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Tuesday's crisis, like every other day's crises, started with something that shouldn't have happened: In this case, the impromptu touch-football game in the dining room (which was only suitable for such a thing because the dining room table happened to be out for refinishing), and a clumsy playmate--Buddy, why was it always Buddy?--who accidentally knocked Ken off-course and sent him careening into the corner of the wall, his arm positioned between the wall and his body taking the brunt of the blow; the inevitable falling down, giggling, jostling and preparation to either do it again, or hide when it was discovered that something had been damaged; when, of course, Ken discovered that something was indeed damaged--himself--but not in any way he could have possibly expected; leading, inevitably, to my bolting out of my office, past the monitors, across the clean-space and into the house when I heard his panicked screams about the wires, cables and circuits that were inside the thing he had, up until now (and since the last crisis) considered to be his right arm.
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