Examen de práctica de Lenguaje (RLA) del GED 2

TO: All Field and Office Staff, Brightline Home Health Services

FROM: Dana Whitcomb, Director of Operations

DATE: March 3

RE: Updated policy on company phones, tablets, and monitoring

(1) Beginning April 1, Brightline will update its policy on the phones and tablets we issue to field staff. Over the past year, many of you have asked what information these devices collect and who can see it. This memo answers those questions and explains the three changes taking effect next month. Please read it carefully; you will be asked to sign an acknowledgment form at your next team meeting.

(2) Why we are making changes. Our devices hold private health information about the clients we serve. Federal law requires us to protect that information, and last fall an unlocked tablet left in a parked car put the records of forty-two clients at risk. No data was misused, but the incident showed that our old rules, written when only a few supervisors carried company phones, no longer fit an agency where nearly every nurse and aide works from a mobile device.

(3) Change 1: Location tracking during scheduled visits only. Company devices will record your location only while you are clocked in for a client visit. This allows us to confirm visits for insurance billing and to send help quickly if you report an emergency. When you clock out, location recording stops. Supervisors will not have access to location history outside working hours, and location records will be deleted after ninety days unless they are needed for a billing dispute.

(4) Change 2: Automatic locking and remote wiping. All devices will lock after two minutes without use and will require a six-digit passcode. If a device is lost or stolen, you must report it to the IT help desk within one hour. IT can then erase the device remotely. Because a remote wipe deletes everything, we strongly recommend that you do not store personal photos or files on company devices.

(5) Change 3: Limited personal use. You may continue to use company phones for brief personal calls and messages, such as letting your family know you will be late. However, you may not install apps that are not on the approved list, and you should not expect that personal messages sent on company devices are private. Brightline does not routinely read staff messages, but messages stored on our systems may be reviewed during an investigation of a policy violation or a legal claim.

(6) What is not changing. Brightline will not use device cameras or microphones to monitor staff, and we will not track personal phones. If you choose to use your own phone for work email, it will remain your property; IT will be able to remove only the work email account, not your personal data.

(7) We know that some of you have concerns about being tracked. We tried to strike a balance: the new rules protect our clients and support your safety in the field while limiting what we collect about you. If you have questions, please attend one of the two information sessions on March 14 and March 21 at noon in the main conference room, or email the help desk. Your feedback on last year's staff survey shaped several parts of this policy, and we will review it again in six months.

TO: All Field and Office Staff, Brightline Home Health Services

FROM: Dana Whitcomb, Director of Operations

DATE: March 3

RE: Updated policy on company phones, tablets, and monitoring

(1) Beginning April 1, Brightline will update its policy on the phones and tablets we issue to field staff. Over the past year, many of you have asked what information these devices collect and who can see it. This memo answers those questions and explains the three changes taking effect next month. Please read it carefully; you will be asked to sign an acknowledgment form at your next team meeting.

(2) Why we are making changes. Our devices hold private health information about the clients we serve. Federal law requires us to protect that information, and last fall an unlocked tablet left in a parked car put the records of forty-two clients at risk. No data was misused, but the incident showed that our old rules, written when only a few supervisors carried company phones, no longer fit an agency where nearly every nurse and aide works from a mobile device.

(3) Change 1: Location tracking during scheduled visits only. Company devices will record your location only while you are clocked in for a client visit. This allows us to confirm visits for insurance billing and to send help quickly if you report an emergency. When you clock out, location recording stops. Supervisors will not have access to location history outside working hours, and location records will be deleted after ninety days unless they are needed for a billing dispute.

(4) Change 2: Automatic locking and remote wiping. All devices will lock after two minutes without use and will require a six-digit passcode. If a device is lost or stolen, you must report it to the IT help desk within one hour. IT can then erase the device remotely. Because a remote wipe deletes everything, we strongly recommend that you do not store personal photos or files on company devices.

(5) Change 3: Limited personal use. You may continue to use company phones for brief personal calls and messages, such as letting your family know you will be late. However, you may not install apps that are not on the approved list, and you should not expect that personal messages sent on company devices are private. Brightline does not routinely read staff messages, but messages stored on our systems may be reviewed during an investigation of a policy violation or a legal claim.

(6) What is not changing. Brightline will not use device cameras or microphones to monitor staff, and we will not track personal phones. If you choose to use your own phone for work email, it will remain your property; IT will be able to remove only the work email account, not your personal data.

(7) We know that some of you have concerns about being tracked. We tried to strike a balance: the new rules protect our clients and support your safety in the field while limiting what we collect about you. If you have questions, please attend one of the two information sessions on March 14 and March 21 at noon in the main conference room, or email the help desk. Your feedback on last year's staff survey shaped several parts of this policy, and we will review it again in six months.

TO: All Field and Office Staff, Brightline Home Health Services

FROM: Dana Whitcomb, Director of Operations

DATE: March 3

RE: Updated policy on company phones, tablets, and monitoring

(1) Beginning April 1, Brightline will update its policy on the phones and tablets we issue to field staff. Over the past year, many of you have asked what information these devices collect and who can see it. This memo answers those questions and explains the three changes taking effect next month. Please read it carefully; you will be asked to sign an acknowledgment form at your next team meeting.

(2) Why we are making changes. Our devices hold private health information about the clients we serve. Federal law requires us to protect that information, and last fall an unlocked tablet left in a parked car put the records of forty-two clients at risk. No data was misused, but the incident showed that our old rules, written when only a few supervisors carried company phones, no longer fit an agency where nearly every nurse and aide works from a mobile device.

(3) Change 1: Location tracking during scheduled visits only. Company devices will record your location only while you are clocked in for a client visit. This allows us to confirm visits for insurance billing and to send help quickly if you report an emergency. When you clock out, location recording stops. Supervisors will not have access to location history outside working hours, and location records will be deleted after ninety days unless they are needed for a billing dispute.

(4) Change 2: Automatic locking and remote wiping. All devices will lock after two minutes without use and will require a six-digit passcode. If a device is lost or stolen, you must report it to the IT help desk within one hour. IT can then erase the device remotely. Because a remote wipe deletes everything, we strongly recommend that you do not store personal photos or files on company devices.

(5) Change 3: Limited personal use. You may continue to use company phones for brief personal calls and messages, such as letting your family know you will be late. However, you may not install apps that are not on the approved list, and you should not expect that personal messages sent on company devices are private. Brightline does not routinely read staff messages, but messages stored on our systems may be reviewed during an investigation of a policy violation or a legal claim.

(6) What is not changing. Brightline will not use device cameras or microphones to monitor staff, and we will not track personal phones. If you choose to use your own phone for work email, it will remain your property; IT will be able to remove only the work email account, not your personal data.

(7) We know that some of you have concerns about being tracked. We tried to strike a balance: the new rules protect our clients and support your safety in the field while limiting what we collect about you. If you have questions, please attend one of the two information sessions on March 14 and March 21 at noon in the main conference room, or email the help desk. Your feedback on last year's staff survey shaped several parts of this policy, and we will review it again in six months.

TO: All Field and Office Staff, Brightline Home Health Services

FROM: Dana Whitcomb, Director of Operations

DATE: March 3

RE: Updated policy on company phones, tablets, and monitoring

(1) Beginning April 1, Brightline will update its policy on the phones and tablets we issue to field staff. Over the past year, many of you have asked what information these devices collect and who can see it. This memo answers those questions and explains the three changes taking effect next month. Please read it carefully; you will be asked to sign an acknowledgment form at your next team meeting.

(2) Why we are making changes. Our devices hold private health information about the clients we serve. Federal law requires us to protect that information, and last fall an unlocked tablet left in a parked car put the records of forty-two clients at risk. No data was misused, but the incident showed that our old rules, written when only a few supervisors carried company phones, no longer fit an agency where nearly every nurse and aide works from a mobile device.

(3) Change 1: Location tracking during scheduled visits only. Company devices will record your location only while you are clocked in for a client visit. This allows us to confirm visits for insurance billing and to send help quickly if you report an emergency. When you clock out, location recording stops. Supervisors will not have access to location history outside working hours, and location records will be deleted after ninety days unless they are needed for a billing dispute.

(4) Change 2: Automatic locking and remote wiping. All devices will lock after two minutes without use and will require a six-digit passcode. If a device is lost or stolen, you must report it to the IT help desk within one hour. IT can then erase the device remotely. Because a remote wipe deletes everything, we strongly recommend that you do not store personal photos or files on company devices.

(5) Change 3: Limited personal use. You may continue to use company phones for brief personal calls and messages, such as letting your family know you will be late. However, you may not install apps that are not on the approved list, and you should not expect that personal messages sent on company devices are private. Brightline does not routinely read staff messages, but messages stored on our systems may be reviewed during an investigation of a policy violation or a legal claim.

(6) What is not changing. Brightline will not use device cameras or microphones to monitor staff, and we will not track personal phones. If you choose to use your own phone for work email, it will remain your property; IT will be able to remove only the work email account, not your personal data.

(7) We know that some of you have concerns about being tracked. We tried to strike a balance: the new rules protect our clients and support your safety in the field while limiting what we collect about you. If you have questions, please attend one of the two information sessions on March 14 and March 21 at noon in the main conference room, or email the help desk. Your feedback on last year's staff survey shaped several parts of this policy, and we will review it again in six months.

(1) Beneath the streets of many older American cities, streams still flow, but they flow through pipes. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, city engineers routinely buried small creeks in brick or concrete tunnels called culverts. At the time, the decision made sense. Urban streams often carried sewage and garbage, spread disease, and flooded nearby homes. Covering them created flat land for roads and buildings and moved dirty water out of sight.

(2) Today, a growing number of cities are reversing that decision. The practice, known as "daylighting," involves digging up a buried stream and restoring it to an open channel, often lined with plants, rocks, and walking paths. In 2012, Yonkers, New York, opened a downtown park where part of the Saw Mill River had run for decades in a pipe beneath a parking lot. In Seoul, South Korea, the city removed an elevated highway in the early 2000s to restore the Cheonggyecheon stream, which now runs for more than three miles through the center of the city. Smaller projects have been completed in places such as Berkeley, California.

(3) Supporters point to several benefits. First, open streams can reduce flooding. A culvert can carry only a fixed amount of water; during a heavy storm, it may back up and send water into streets and basements. An open channel with sloping banks gives floodwater room to spread out and slow down. Second, sunlight and plants improve water quality. In a dark pipe, little can live; in an open stream, plants and microorganisms break down some pollutants, and fish and insects can return. Third, daylighted streams can cool the surrounding area. Studies in Seoul found that air along the restored stream was noticeably cooler on summer days than air on busy streets a few blocks away.

(4) The benefits extend beyond the environment. In many cities, the land above a buried stream is a parking lot or an empty strip between buildings. Turning it into a green corridor can attract visitors, raise nearby property values, and give residents a place to walk. City leaders in Yonkers hoped the new park would help draw businesses back to a struggling downtown, and new apartment buildings have since gone up nearby.

(5) Yet daylighting is neither cheap nor simple. Digging up a culvert can mean moving gas lines, sewer pipes, and electrical cables that were built around it over a century. Large projects can cost tens of millions of dollars. In crowded neighborhoods, there may simply be no room to open a channel without tearing down buildings. And not every buried stream is clean enough to bring to the surface; if sewage still flows into it, uncovering it may create odors and health risks rather than a park. Some critics also worry that rising property values can push out longtime, lower-income residents, the very people a new public space is supposed to serve.

(6) For these reasons, many engineers favor a middle path. Where a full restoration is not possible, a city might open only a short section of a stream, build a channel that imitates a natural creek alongside a busy street, or simply mark the route of the buried stream with signs and plantings so residents know it is there. Even these smaller steps, advocates argue, change how people think about water in the city: not as waste to be hidden, but as a resource to be managed.

(7) The engineers who buried these streams were solving the problems of their own time. The challenge for today's cities is to decide which of those solutions still serve them, and which ones are worth digging up.

(1) Beneath the streets of many older American cities, streams still flow, but they flow through pipes. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, city engineers routinely buried small creeks in brick or concrete tunnels called culverts. At the time, the decision made sense. Urban streams often carried sewage and garbage, spread disease, and flooded nearby homes. Covering them created flat land for roads and buildings and moved dirty water out of sight.

(2) Today, a growing number of cities are reversing that decision. The practice, known as "daylighting," involves digging up a buried stream and restoring it to an open channel, often lined with plants, rocks, and walking paths. In 2012, Yonkers, New York, opened a downtown park where part of the Saw Mill River had run for decades in a pipe beneath a parking lot. In Seoul, South Korea, the city removed an elevated highway in the early 2000s to restore the Cheonggyecheon stream, which now runs for more than three miles through the center of the city. Smaller projects have been completed in places such as Berkeley, California.

(3) Supporters point to several benefits. First, open streams can reduce flooding. A culvert can carry only a fixed amount of water; during a heavy storm, it may back up and send water into streets and basements. An open channel with sloping banks gives floodwater room to spread out and slow down. Second, sunlight and plants improve water quality. In a dark pipe, little can live; in an open stream, plants and microorganisms break down some pollutants, and fish and insects can return. Third, daylighted streams can cool the surrounding area. Studies in Seoul found that air along the restored stream was noticeably cooler on summer days than air on busy streets a few blocks away.

(4) The benefits extend beyond the environment. In many cities, the land above a buried stream is a parking lot or an empty strip between buildings. Turning it into a green corridor can attract visitors, raise nearby property values, and give residents a place to walk. City leaders in Yonkers hoped the new park would help draw businesses back to a struggling downtown, and new apartment buildings have since gone up nearby.

(5) Yet daylighting is neither cheap nor simple. Digging up a culvert can mean moving gas lines, sewer pipes, and electrical cables that were built around it over a century. Large projects can cost tens of millions of dollars. In crowded neighborhoods, there may simply be no room to open a channel without tearing down buildings. And not every buried stream is clean enough to bring to the surface; if sewage still flows into it, uncovering it may create odors and health risks rather than a park. Some critics also worry that rising property values can push out longtime, lower-income residents, the very people a new public space is supposed to serve.

(6) For these reasons, many engineers favor a middle path. Where a full restoration is not possible, a city might open only a short section of a stream, build a channel that imitates a natural creek alongside a busy street, or simply mark the route of the buried stream with signs and plantings so residents know it is there. Even these smaller steps, advocates argue, change how people think about water in the city: not as waste to be hidden, but as a resource to be managed.

(7) The engineers who buried these streams were solving the problems of their own time. The challenge for today's cities is to decide which of those solutions still serve them, and which ones are worth digging up.

(1) Beneath the streets of many older American cities, streams still flow, but they flow through pipes. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, city engineers routinely buried small creeks in brick or concrete tunnels called culverts. At the time, the decision made sense. Urban streams often carried sewage and garbage, spread disease, and flooded nearby homes. Covering them created flat land for roads and buildings and moved dirty water out of sight.

(2) Today, a growing number of cities are reversing that decision. The practice, known as "daylighting," involves digging up a buried stream and restoring it to an open channel, often lined with plants, rocks, and walking paths. In 2012, Yonkers, New York, opened a downtown park where part of the Saw Mill River had run for decades in a pipe beneath a parking lot. In Seoul, South Korea, the city removed an elevated highway in the early 2000s to restore the Cheonggyecheon stream, which now runs for more than three miles through the center of the city. Smaller projects have been completed in places such as Berkeley, California.

(3) Supporters point to several benefits. First, open streams can reduce flooding. A culvert can carry only a fixed amount of water; during a heavy storm, it may back up and send water into streets and basements. An open channel with sloping banks gives floodwater room to spread out and slow down. Second, sunlight and plants improve water quality. In a dark pipe, little can live; in an open stream, plants and microorganisms break down some pollutants, and fish and insects can return. Third, daylighted streams can cool the surrounding area. Studies in Seoul found that air along the restored stream was noticeably cooler on summer days than air on busy streets a few blocks away.

(4) The benefits extend beyond the environment. In many cities, the land above a buried stream is a parking lot or an empty strip between buildings. Turning it into a green corridor can attract visitors, raise nearby property values, and give residents a place to walk. City leaders in Yonkers hoped the new park would help draw businesses back to a struggling downtown, and new apartment buildings have since gone up nearby.

(5) Yet daylighting is neither cheap nor simple. Digging up a culvert can mean moving gas lines, sewer pipes, and electrical cables that were built around it over a century. Large projects can cost tens of millions of dollars. In crowded neighborhoods, there may simply be no room to open a channel without tearing down buildings. And not every buried stream is clean enough to bring to the surface; if sewage still flows into it, uncovering it may create odors and health risks rather than a park. Some critics also worry that rising property values can push out longtime, lower-income residents, the very people a new public space is supposed to serve.

(6) For these reasons, many engineers favor a middle path. Where a full restoration is not possible, a city might open only a short section of a stream, build a channel that imitates a natural creek alongside a busy street, or simply mark the route of the buried stream with signs and plantings so residents know it is there. Even these smaller steps, advocates argue, change how people think about water in the city: not as waste to be hidden, but as a resource to be managed.

(7) The engineers who buried these streams were solving the problems of their own time. The challenge for today's cities is to decide which of those solutions still serve them, and which ones are worth digging up.

(1) Beneath the streets of many older American cities, streams still flow, but they flow through pipes. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, city engineers routinely buried small creeks in brick or concrete tunnels called culverts. At the time, the decision made sense. Urban streams often carried sewage and garbage, spread disease, and flooded nearby homes. Covering them created flat land for roads and buildings and moved dirty water out of sight.

(2) Today, a growing number of cities are reversing that decision. The practice, known as "daylighting," involves digging up a buried stream and restoring it to an open channel, often lined with plants, rocks, and walking paths. In 2012, Yonkers, New York, opened a downtown park where part of the Saw Mill River had run for decades in a pipe beneath a parking lot. In Seoul, South Korea, the city removed an elevated highway in the early 2000s to restore the Cheonggyecheon stream, which now runs for more than three miles through the center of the city. Smaller projects have been completed in places such as Berkeley, California.

(3) Supporters point to several benefits. First, open streams can reduce flooding. A culvert can carry only a fixed amount of water; during a heavy storm, it may back up and send water into streets and basements. An open channel with sloping banks gives floodwater room to spread out and slow down. Second, sunlight and plants improve water quality. In a dark pipe, little can live; in an open stream, plants and microorganisms break down some pollutants, and fish and insects can return. Third, daylighted streams can cool the surrounding area. Studies in Seoul found that air along the restored stream was noticeably cooler on summer days than air on busy streets a few blocks away.

(4) The benefits extend beyond the environment. In many cities, the land above a buried stream is a parking lot or an empty strip between buildings. Turning it into a green corridor can attract visitors, raise nearby property values, and give residents a place to walk. City leaders in Yonkers hoped the new park would help draw businesses back to a struggling downtown, and new apartment buildings have since gone up nearby.

(5) Yet daylighting is neither cheap nor simple. Digging up a culvert can mean moving gas lines, sewer pipes, and electrical cables that were built around it over a century. Large projects can cost tens of millions of dollars. In crowded neighborhoods, there may simply be no room to open a channel without tearing down buildings. And not every buried stream is clean enough to bring to the surface; if sewage still flows into it, uncovering it may create odors and health risks rather than a park. Some critics also worry that rising property values can push out longtime, lower-income residents, the very people a new public space is supposed to serve.

(6) For these reasons, many engineers favor a middle path. Where a full restoration is not possible, a city might open only a short section of a stream, build a channel that imitates a natural creek alongside a busy street, or simply mark the route of the buried stream with signs and plantings so residents know it is there. Even these smaller steps, advocates argue, change how people think about water in the city: not as waste to be hidden, but as a resource to be managed.

(7) The engineers who buried these streams were solving the problems of their own time. The challenge for today's cities is to decide which of those solutions still serve them, and which ones are worth digging up.

President Abraham Lincoln delivered this address on March 4, 1865, at the start of his second term. The Civil War was nearing its end.

(1) Fellow-Countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

(2) On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

(3) One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

(4) With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

President Abraham Lincoln delivered this address on March 4, 1865, at the start of his second term. The Civil War was nearing its end.

(1) Fellow-Countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

(2) On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

(3) One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

(4) With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

President Abraham Lincoln delivered this address on March 4, 1865, at the start of his second term. The Civil War was nearing its end.

(1) Fellow-Countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

(2) On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

(3) One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

(4) With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

President Abraham Lincoln delivered this address on March 4, 1865, at the start of his second term. The Civil War was nearing its end.

(1) Fellow-Countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

(2) On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

(3) One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

(4) With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

President Abraham Lincoln delivered this address on March 4, 1865, at the start of his second term. The Civil War was nearing its end.

(1) Fellow-Countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

(2) On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war—seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

(3) One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

(4) With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

Text 1 — Smarter Streets Are Safer Streets (op-ed by the police chief of Riverton, a fictional city)

(1) Two years ago, Riverton replaced 40 aging streetlights on Harmon Avenue with "smart" streetlights. Each one uses an energy-saving LED bulb, and 12 of them carry small cameras that can read license plates. When a car that has been reported stolen, or that is linked to an active criminal investigation, passes one of these cameras, officers receive an alert within seconds.

(2) The results speak for themselves. In the first year of the pilot program, reported car thefts in the Harmon Avenue district dropped from 64 to 41. Detectives used camera images to identify suspects in a hit-and-run crash that injured a 9-year-old and in a string of break-ins at local shops. Last spring, an alert led officers to a stolen pickup truck within 15 minutes of the theft.

(3) I am asking the City Council to fund 300 more smart streetlights with cameras across Riverton over the next three years. Every neighborhood deserves the same protection that Harmon Avenue now enjoys.

(4) Some residents have raised privacy concerns, and I take those concerns seriously. That is why our department already follows strict rules. Plate images that do not match a stolen car or an investigation are deleted after 30 days. Only trained officers may search the system, and every search is logged. The cameras do not use facial recognition.

(5) In the end, a camera on a streetlight records nothing more than what any person standing on the sidewalk could see. People who obey the law have nothing to fear from it. The people who should worry are the ones who steal cars and flee crashes, and with more cameras, they will have fewer places to hide.

Text 2 — Who Watches the Streetlights? (letter from a member of the Riverton Civil Liberties Coalition, a fictional group)

(6) No one is against catching car thieves. But before the city spends millions of dollars to put cameras on 300 more streetlights, residents deserve a closer look at what the pilot program actually shows, and at what it could become.

(7) The chief points out that car thefts on Harmon Avenue fell from 64 to 41 during the pilot. What the op-ed does not mention is that, according to the department's own annual report, car thefts fell by a similar share across the entire city that year, including in neighborhoods with no cameras at all. Something caused thefts to drop, but the numbers do not show that it was the cameras.

(8) The privacy question is also bigger than the chief suggests. It is true that a single camera sees only what a person on the sidewalk could see. But hundreds of cameras, with their records stored and searchable for 30 days, can do something no person on a sidewalk can: piece together where a particular car went, day after day. Such a record can reveal who visits a health clinic, a house of worship, a union hall, or a political meeting. Most of those drivers are not suspected of anything.

(9) There is also the risk of "mission creep," the tendency for a tool built for one purpose to be used gradually for others. A system installed to find stolen cars can, with a few policy changes and no public debate, be used to track people with unpaid parking tickets or to share data with outside agencies. Rules written by a department can be rewritten by that department.

(10) I am not asking the council to tear down the existing cameras. I am asking it to adopt a public ordinance before any expansion: plate images that match no investigation should be deleted within 7 days, not 30; an independent auditor should review searches every year and publish the results; and any new use of the system should require a vote of the council. If the cameras are as valuable as the chief believes, they will survive that kind of oversight.

Text 1 — Smarter Streets Are Safer Streets (op-ed by the police chief of Riverton, a fictional city)

(1) Two years ago, Riverton replaced 40 aging streetlights on Harmon Avenue with "smart" streetlights. Each one uses an energy-saving LED bulb, and 12 of them carry small cameras that can read license plates. When a car that has been reported stolen, or that is linked to an active criminal investigation, passes one of these cameras, officers receive an alert within seconds.

(2) The results speak for themselves. In the first year of the pilot program, reported car thefts in the Harmon Avenue district dropped from 64 to 41. Detectives used camera images to identify suspects in a hit-and-run crash that injured a 9-year-old and in a string of break-ins at local shops. Last spring, an alert led officers to a stolen pickup truck within 15 minutes of the theft.

(3) I am asking the City Council to fund 300 more smart streetlights with cameras across Riverton over the next three years. Every neighborhood deserves the same protection that Harmon Avenue now enjoys.

(4) Some residents have raised privacy concerns, and I take those concerns seriously. That is why our department already follows strict rules. Plate images that do not match a stolen car or an investigation are deleted after 30 days. Only trained officers may search the system, and every search is logged. The cameras do not use facial recognition.

(5) In the end, a camera on a streetlight records nothing more than what any person standing on the sidewalk could see. People who obey the law have nothing to fear from it. The people who should worry are the ones who steal cars and flee crashes, and with more cameras, they will have fewer places to hide.

Text 2 — Who Watches the Streetlights? (letter from a member of the Riverton Civil Liberties Coalition, a fictional group)

(6) No one is against catching car thieves. But before the city spends millions of dollars to put cameras on 300 more streetlights, residents deserve a closer look at what the pilot program actually shows, and at what it could become.

(7) The chief points out that car thefts on Harmon Avenue fell from 64 to 41 during the pilot. What the op-ed does not mention is that, according to the department's own annual report, car thefts fell by a similar share across the entire city that year, including in neighborhoods with no cameras at all. Something caused thefts to drop, but the numbers do not show that it was the cameras.

(8) The privacy question is also bigger than the chief suggests. It is true that a single camera sees only what a person on the sidewalk could see. But hundreds of cameras, with their records stored and searchable for 30 days, can do something no person on a sidewalk can: piece together where a particular car went, day after day. Such a record can reveal who visits a health clinic, a house of worship, a union hall, or a political meeting. Most of those drivers are not suspected of anything.

(9) There is also the risk of "mission creep," the tendency for a tool built for one purpose to be used gradually for others. A system installed to find stolen cars can, with a few policy changes and no public debate, be used to track people with unpaid parking tickets or to share data with outside agencies. Rules written by a department can be rewritten by that department.

(10) I am not asking the council to tear down the existing cameras. I am asking it to adopt a public ordinance before any expansion: plate images that match no investigation should be deleted within 7 days, not 30; an independent auditor should review searches every year and publish the results; and any new use of the system should require a vote of the council. If the cameras are as valuable as the chief believes, they will survive that kind of oversight.

Text 1 — Smarter Streets Are Safer Streets (op-ed by the police chief of Riverton, a fictional city)

(1) Two years ago, Riverton replaced 40 aging streetlights on Harmon Avenue with "smart" streetlights. Each one uses an energy-saving LED bulb, and 12 of them carry small cameras that can read license plates. When a car that has been reported stolen, or that is linked to an active criminal investigation, passes one of these cameras, officers receive an alert within seconds.

(2) The results speak for themselves. In the first year of the pilot program, reported car thefts in the Harmon Avenue district dropped from 64 to 41. Detectives used camera images to identify suspects in a hit-and-run crash that injured a 9-year-old and in a string of break-ins at local shops. Last spring, an alert led officers to a stolen pickup truck within 15 minutes of the theft.

(3) I am asking the City Council to fund 300 more smart streetlights with cameras across Riverton over the next three years. Every neighborhood deserves the same protection that Harmon Avenue now enjoys.

(4) Some residents have raised privacy concerns, and I take those concerns seriously. That is why our department already follows strict rules. Plate images that do not match a stolen car or an investigation are deleted after 30 days. Only trained officers may search the system, and every search is logged. The cameras do not use facial recognition.

(5) In the end, a camera on a streetlight records nothing more than what any person standing on the sidewalk could see. People who obey the law have nothing to fear from it. The people who should worry are the ones who steal cars and flee crashes, and with more cameras, they will have fewer places to hide.

Text 2 — Who Watches the Streetlights? (letter from a member of the Riverton Civil Liberties Coalition, a fictional group)

(6) No one is against catching car thieves. But before the city spends millions of dollars to put cameras on 300 more streetlights, residents deserve a closer look at what the pilot program actually shows, and at what it could become.

(7) The chief points out that car thefts on Harmon Avenue fell from 64 to 41 during the pilot. What the op-ed does not mention is that, according to the department's own annual report, car thefts fell by a similar share across the entire city that year, including in neighborhoods with no cameras at all. Something caused thefts to drop, but the numbers do not show that it was the cameras.

(8) The privacy question is also bigger than the chief suggests. It is true that a single camera sees only what a person on the sidewalk could see. But hundreds of cameras, with their records stored and searchable for 30 days, can do something no person on a sidewalk can: piece together where a particular car went, day after day. Such a record can reveal who visits a health clinic, a house of worship, a union hall, or a political meeting. Most of those drivers are not suspected of anything.

(9) There is also the risk of "mission creep," the tendency for a tool built for one purpose to be used gradually for others. A system installed to find stolen cars can, with a few policy changes and no public debate, be used to track people with unpaid parking tickets or to share data with outside agencies. Rules written by a department can be rewritten by that department.

(10) I am not asking the council to tear down the existing cameras. I am asking it to adopt a public ordinance before any expansion: plate images that match no investigation should be deleted within 7 days, not 30; an independent auditor should review searches every year and publish the results; and any new use of the system should require a vote of the council. If the cameras are as valuable as the chief believes, they will survive that kind of oversight.

Text 1 — Smarter Streets Are Safer Streets (op-ed by the police chief of Riverton, a fictional city)

(1) Two years ago, Riverton replaced 40 aging streetlights on Harmon Avenue with "smart" streetlights. Each one uses an energy-saving LED bulb, and 12 of them carry small cameras that can read license plates. When a car that has been reported stolen, or that is linked to an active criminal investigation, passes one of these cameras, officers receive an alert within seconds.

(2) The results speak for themselves. In the first year of the pilot program, reported car thefts in the Harmon Avenue district dropped from 64 to 41. Detectives used camera images to identify suspects in a hit-and-run crash that injured a 9-year-old and in a string of break-ins at local shops. Last spring, an alert led officers to a stolen pickup truck within 15 minutes of the theft.

(3) I am asking the City Council to fund 300 more smart streetlights with cameras across Riverton over the next three years. Every neighborhood deserves the same protection that Harmon Avenue now enjoys.

(4) Some residents have raised privacy concerns, and I take those concerns seriously. That is why our department already follows strict rules. Plate images that do not match a stolen car or an investigation are deleted after 30 days. Only trained officers may search the system, and every search is logged. The cameras do not use facial recognition.

(5) In the end, a camera on a streetlight records nothing more than what any person standing on the sidewalk could see. People who obey the law have nothing to fear from it. The people who should worry are the ones who steal cars and flee crashes, and with more cameras, they will have fewer places to hide.

Text 2 — Who Watches the Streetlights? (letter from a member of the Riverton Civil Liberties Coalition, a fictional group)

(6) No one is against catching car thieves. But before the city spends millions of dollars to put cameras on 300 more streetlights, residents deserve a closer look at what the pilot program actually shows, and at what it could become.

(7) The chief points out that car thefts on Harmon Avenue fell from 64 to 41 during the pilot. What the op-ed does not mention is that, according to the department's own annual report, car thefts fell by a similar share across the entire city that year, including in neighborhoods with no cameras at all. Something caused thefts to drop, but the numbers do not show that it was the cameras.

(8) The privacy question is also bigger than the chief suggests. It is true that a single camera sees only what a person on the sidewalk could see. But hundreds of cameras, with their records stored and searchable for 30 days, can do something no person on a sidewalk can: piece together where a particular car went, day after day. Such a record can reveal who visits a health clinic, a house of worship, a union hall, or a political meeting. Most of those drivers are not suspected of anything.

(9) There is also the risk of "mission creep," the tendency for a tool built for one purpose to be used gradually for others. A system installed to find stolen cars can, with a few policy changes and no public debate, be used to track people with unpaid parking tickets or to share data with outside agencies. Rules written by a department can be rewritten by that department.

(10) I am not asking the council to tear down the existing cameras. I am asking it to adopt a public ordinance before any expansion: plate images that match no investigation should be deleted within 7 days, not 30; an independent auditor should review searches every year and publish the results; and any new use of the system should require a vote of the council. If the cameras are as valuable as the chief believes, they will survive that kind of oversight.

Text 1 — Smarter Streets Are Safer Streets (op-ed by the police chief of Riverton, a fictional city)

(1) Two years ago, Riverton replaced 40 aging streetlights on Harmon Avenue with "smart" streetlights. Each one uses an energy-saving LED bulb, and 12 of them carry small cameras that can read license plates. When a car that has been reported stolen, or that is linked to an active criminal investigation, passes one of these cameras, officers receive an alert within seconds.

(2) The results speak for themselves. In the first year of the pilot program, reported car thefts in the Harmon Avenue district dropped from 64 to 41. Detectives used camera images to identify suspects in a hit-and-run crash that injured a 9-year-old and in a string of break-ins at local shops. Last spring, an alert led officers to a stolen pickup truck within 15 minutes of the theft.

(3) I am asking the City Council to fund 300 more smart streetlights with cameras across Riverton over the next three years. Every neighborhood deserves the same protection that Harmon Avenue now enjoys.

(4) Some residents have raised privacy concerns, and I take those concerns seriously. That is why our department already follows strict rules. Plate images that do not match a stolen car or an investigation are deleted after 30 days. Only trained officers may search the system, and every search is logged. The cameras do not use facial recognition.

(5) In the end, a camera on a streetlight records nothing more than what any person standing on the sidewalk could see. People who obey the law have nothing to fear from it. The people who should worry are the ones who steal cars and flee crashes, and with more cameras, they will have fewer places to hide.

Text 2 — Who Watches the Streetlights? (letter from a member of the Riverton Civil Liberties Coalition, a fictional group)

(6) No one is against catching car thieves. But before the city spends millions of dollars to put cameras on 300 more streetlights, residents deserve a closer look at what the pilot program actually shows, and at what it could become.

(7) The chief points out that car thefts on Harmon Avenue fell from 64 to 41 during the pilot. What the op-ed does not mention is that, according to the department's own annual report, car thefts fell by a similar share across the entire city that year, including in neighborhoods with no cameras at all. Something caused thefts to drop, but the numbers do not show that it was the cameras.

(8) The privacy question is also bigger than the chief suggests. It is true that a single camera sees only what a person on the sidewalk could see. But hundreds of cameras, with their records stored and searchable for 30 days, can do something no person on a sidewalk can: piece together where a particular car went, day after day. Such a record can reveal who visits a health clinic, a house of worship, a union hall, or a political meeting. Most of those drivers are not suspected of anything.

(9) There is also the risk of "mission creep," the tendency for a tool built for one purpose to be used gradually for others. A system installed to find stolen cars can, with a few policy changes and no public debate, be used to track people with unpaid parking tickets or to share data with outside agencies. Rules written by a department can be rewritten by that department.

(10) I am not asking the council to tear down the existing cameras. I am asking it to adopt a public ordinance before any expansion: plate images that match no investigation should be deleted within 7 days, not 30; an independent auditor should review searches every year and publish the results; and any new use of the system should require a vote of the council. If the cameras are as valuable as the chief believes, they will survive that kind of oversight.

(1) The bus left Albuquerque a little after midnight, and by the time the sky began to gray, Ines had counted forty-one mile markers and given up on sleep. She had brought a pillow from home, the flat blue one from the couch, but it smelled like her kitchen and made her homesick, so she kept it in her lap instead.

(2) She was sixty-three years old, and she had never been farther west than Gallup. Now she was going all the way to Sacramento, more than a thousand miles, because her granddaughter Lucy was graduating from nursing school and had written, in a card with a cartoon owl on it, You HAVE to come, Abuela. No excuses this time.

(3) There had always been excuses. The restaurant where Ines cooked for thirty years did not give vacations to people who wanted to keep their jobs. Then her husband got sick, and there was no question of leaving him. Then he was gone, and the house felt too large to leave, as if it might forget her if she turned her back on it.

(4) The young man in the seat beside her woke near Flagstaff. He had a guitar case wedged between his knees and a face that looked as though it had not yet decided what kind of grown man it would be.

(5) "Where you headed?" he asked.

(6) "Sacramento. My granddaughter is graduating."

(7) "Nice." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to L.A. Got an audition." He said it the way people say they have a winning lottery ticket they haven't checked yet—proud, and afraid to look.

(8) Ines nodded. She did not ask what kind of audition. She knew something about hoping for things out loud.

(9) In the desert, the land opened up like a hand. Ines had expected emptiness, but the empty was full: red rock stacked in shelves, a hawk turning slow circles, a single trailer with laundry snapping on a line, miles from anything. She pressed her forehead to the cold window. Ruben would have loved this, she thought. He had always talked about driving to the ocean. They had always said next year.

(10) At a gas station in Kingman, the bus stopped for twenty minutes. Ines bought two coffees and handed one to the young man without asking. He looked at it, then at her.

(11) "My mother would do that," he said.

(12) "Your mother is a smart woman."

(13) He laughed, and for the first time looked his age, which Ines guessed was nineteen. He told her his name was Marcus. He told her his mother didn't want him to go, that she said music was a hobby and not a life. He had taken the money from his summer job and bought the ticket anyway.

(14) "Do you think I'm being stupid?" he asked.

(15) Ines turned the coffee cup in her hands. She thought of all the next years that had turned into never. She thought of the cartoon owl.

(16) "I think," she said slowly, "that your mother is afraid. Being afraid for someone and being right about them are two different things."

(17) Marcus was quiet for a long time. Then he unlatched the guitar case and, very softly, so as not to wake the man snoring across the aisle, began to play. It was not a song Ines knew. It sounded like the desert looked: wide and patient, with something hidden in it.

(18) They crossed into California in the late afternoon. At Barstow, Marcus had to change buses. He stood in the aisle with the guitar case bumping his knees and seemed unsure how to say goodbye.

(19) "Good luck at your audition," Ines said. "Call your mother when it's over. Whatever happens."

(20) "Good luck at the graduation," he said, and then, as if he had just understood something, "You came a long way for it."

(21) "Yes," she said. "I did."

(22) After he left, the seat beside her felt very empty. Ines put the blue pillow there, then took it back and held it against her chest. Outside, the light was turning gold over the hills. Somewhere ahead was Lucy in a white uniform, waiting to look out at the audience and find her face. For the first time since she had left Albuquerque, Ines was not thinking about the house. She was thinking about the road, and how much of it was still in front of her.

(1) The bus left Albuquerque a little after midnight, and by the time the sky began to gray, Ines had counted forty-one mile markers and given up on sleep. She had brought a pillow from home, the flat blue one from the couch, but it smelled like her kitchen and made her homesick, so she kept it in her lap instead.

(2) She was sixty-three years old, and she had never been farther west than Gallup. Now she was going all the way to Sacramento, more than a thousand miles, because her granddaughter Lucy was graduating from nursing school and had written, in a card with a cartoon owl on it, You HAVE to come, Abuela. No excuses this time.

(3) There had always been excuses. The restaurant where Ines cooked for thirty years did not give vacations to people who wanted to keep their jobs. Then her husband got sick, and there was no question of leaving him. Then he was gone, and the house felt too large to leave, as if it might forget her if she turned her back on it.

(4) The young man in the seat beside her woke near Flagstaff. He had a guitar case wedged between his knees and a face that looked as though it had not yet decided what kind of grown man it would be.

(5) "Where you headed?" he asked.

(6) "Sacramento. My granddaughter is graduating."

(7) "Nice." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to L.A. Got an audition." He said it the way people say they have a winning lottery ticket they haven't checked yet—proud, and afraid to look.

(8) Ines nodded. She did not ask what kind of audition. She knew something about hoping for things out loud.

(9) In the desert, the land opened up like a hand. Ines had expected emptiness, but the empty was full: red rock stacked in shelves, a hawk turning slow circles, a single trailer with laundry snapping on a line, miles from anything. She pressed her forehead to the cold window. Ruben would have loved this, she thought. He had always talked about driving to the ocean. They had always said next year.

(10) At a gas station in Kingman, the bus stopped for twenty minutes. Ines bought two coffees and handed one to the young man without asking. He looked at it, then at her.

(11) "My mother would do that," he said.

(12) "Your mother is a smart woman."

(13) He laughed, and for the first time looked his age, which Ines guessed was nineteen. He told her his name was Marcus. He told her his mother didn't want him to go, that she said music was a hobby and not a life. He had taken the money from his summer job and bought the ticket anyway.

(14) "Do you think I'm being stupid?" he asked.

(15) Ines turned the coffee cup in her hands. She thought of all the next years that had turned into never. She thought of the cartoon owl.

(16) "I think," she said slowly, "that your mother is afraid. Being afraid for someone and being right about them are two different things."

(17) Marcus was quiet for a long time. Then he unlatched the guitar case and, very softly, so as not to wake the man snoring across the aisle, began to play. It was not a song Ines knew. It sounded like the desert looked: wide and patient, with something hidden in it.

(18) They crossed into California in the late afternoon. At Barstow, Marcus had to change buses. He stood in the aisle with the guitar case bumping his knees and seemed unsure how to say goodbye.

(19) "Good luck at your audition," Ines said. "Call your mother when it's over. Whatever happens."

(20) "Good luck at the graduation," he said, and then, as if he had just understood something, "You came a long way for it."

(21) "Yes," she said. "I did."

(22) After he left, the seat beside her felt very empty. Ines put the blue pillow there, then took it back and held it against her chest. Outside, the light was turning gold over the hills. Somewhere ahead was Lucy in a white uniform, waiting to look out at the audience and find her face. For the first time since she had left Albuquerque, Ines was not thinking about the house. She was thinking about the road, and how much of it was still in front of her.

(1) The bus left Albuquerque a little after midnight, and by the time the sky began to gray, Ines had counted forty-one mile markers and given up on sleep. She had brought a pillow from home, the flat blue one from the couch, but it smelled like her kitchen and made her homesick, so she kept it in her lap instead.

(2) She was sixty-three years old, and she had never been farther west than Gallup. Now she was going all the way to Sacramento, more than a thousand miles, because her granddaughter Lucy was graduating from nursing school and had written, in a card with a cartoon owl on it, You HAVE to come, Abuela. No excuses this time.

(3) There had always been excuses. The restaurant where Ines cooked for thirty years did not give vacations to people who wanted to keep their jobs. Then her husband got sick, and there was no question of leaving him. Then he was gone, and the house felt too large to leave, as if it might forget her if she turned her back on it.

(4) The young man in the seat beside her woke near Flagstaff. He had a guitar case wedged between his knees and a face that looked as though it had not yet decided what kind of grown man it would be.

(5) "Where you headed?" he asked.

(6) "Sacramento. My granddaughter is graduating."

(7) "Nice." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to L.A. Got an audition." He said it the way people say they have a winning lottery ticket they haven't checked yet—proud, and afraid to look.

(8) Ines nodded. She did not ask what kind of audition. She knew something about hoping for things out loud.

(9) In the desert, the land opened up like a hand. Ines had expected emptiness, but the empty was full: red rock stacked in shelves, a hawk turning slow circles, a single trailer with laundry snapping on a line, miles from anything. She pressed her forehead to the cold window. Ruben would have loved this, she thought. He had always talked about driving to the ocean. They had always said next year.

(10) At a gas station in Kingman, the bus stopped for twenty minutes. Ines bought two coffees and handed one to the young man without asking. He looked at it, then at her.

(11) "My mother would do that," he said.

(12) "Your mother is a smart woman."

(13) He laughed, and for the first time looked his age, which Ines guessed was nineteen. He told her his name was Marcus. He told her his mother didn't want him to go, that she said music was a hobby and not a life. He had taken the money from his summer job and bought the ticket anyway.

(14) "Do you think I'm being stupid?" he asked.

(15) Ines turned the coffee cup in her hands. She thought of all the next years that had turned into never. She thought of the cartoon owl.

(16) "I think," she said slowly, "that your mother is afraid. Being afraid for someone and being right about them are two different things."

(17) Marcus was quiet for a long time. Then he unlatched the guitar case and, very softly, so as not to wake the man snoring across the aisle, began to play. It was not a song Ines knew. It sounded like the desert looked: wide and patient, with something hidden in it.

(18) They crossed into California in the late afternoon. At Barstow, Marcus had to change buses. He stood in the aisle with the guitar case bumping his knees and seemed unsure how to say goodbye.

(19) "Good luck at your audition," Ines said. "Call your mother when it's over. Whatever happens."

(20) "Good luck at the graduation," he said, and then, as if he had just understood something, "You came a long way for it."

(21) "Yes," she said. "I did."

(22) After he left, the seat beside her felt very empty. Ines put the blue pillow there, then took it back and held it against her chest. Outside, the light was turning gold over the hills. Somewhere ahead was Lucy in a white uniform, waiting to look out at the audience and find her face. For the first time since she had left Albuquerque, Ines was not thinking about the house. She was thinking about the road, and how much of it was still in front of her.

(1) The bus left Albuquerque a little after midnight, and by the time the sky began to gray, Ines had counted forty-one mile markers and given up on sleep. She had brought a pillow from home, the flat blue one from the couch, but it smelled like her kitchen and made her homesick, so she kept it in her lap instead.

(2) She was sixty-three years old, and she had never been farther west than Gallup. Now she was going all the way to Sacramento, more than a thousand miles, because her granddaughter Lucy was graduating from nursing school and had written, in a card with a cartoon owl on it, You HAVE to come, Abuela. No excuses this time.

(3) There had always been excuses. The restaurant where Ines cooked for thirty years did not give vacations to people who wanted to keep their jobs. Then her husband got sick, and there was no question of leaving him. Then he was gone, and the house felt too large to leave, as if it might forget her if she turned her back on it.

(4) The young man in the seat beside her woke near Flagstaff. He had a guitar case wedged between his knees and a face that looked as though it had not yet decided what kind of grown man it would be.

(5) "Where you headed?" he asked.

(6) "Sacramento. My granddaughter is graduating."

(7) "Nice." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to L.A. Got an audition." He said it the way people say they have a winning lottery ticket they haven't checked yet—proud, and afraid to look.

(8) Ines nodded. She did not ask what kind of audition. She knew something about hoping for things out loud.

(9) In the desert, the land opened up like a hand. Ines had expected emptiness, but the empty was full: red rock stacked in shelves, a hawk turning slow circles, a single trailer with laundry snapping on a line, miles from anything. She pressed her forehead to the cold window. Ruben would have loved this, she thought. He had always talked about driving to the ocean. They had always said next year.

(10) At a gas station in Kingman, the bus stopped for twenty minutes. Ines bought two coffees and handed one to the young man without asking. He looked at it, then at her.

(11) "My mother would do that," he said.

(12) "Your mother is a smart woman."

(13) He laughed, and for the first time looked his age, which Ines guessed was nineteen. He told her his name was Marcus. He told her his mother didn't want him to go, that she said music was a hobby and not a life. He had taken the money from his summer job and bought the ticket anyway.

(14) "Do you think I'm being stupid?" he asked.

(15) Ines turned the coffee cup in her hands. She thought of all the next years that had turned into never. She thought of the cartoon owl.

(16) "I think," she said slowly, "that your mother is afraid. Being afraid for someone and being right about them are two different things."

(17) Marcus was quiet for a long time. Then he unlatched the guitar case and, very softly, so as not to wake the man snoring across the aisle, began to play. It was not a song Ines knew. It sounded like the desert looked: wide and patient, with something hidden in it.

(18) They crossed into California in the late afternoon. At Barstow, Marcus had to change buses. He stood in the aisle with the guitar case bumping his knees and seemed unsure how to say goodbye.

(19) "Good luck at your audition," Ines said. "Call your mother when it's over. Whatever happens."

(20) "Good luck at the graduation," he said, and then, as if he had just understood something, "You came a long way for it."

(21) "Yes," she said. "I did."

(22) After he left, the seat beside her felt very empty. Ines put the blue pillow there, then took it back and held it against her chest. Outside, the light was turning gold over the hills. Somewhere ahead was Lucy in a white uniform, waiting to look out at the audience and find her face. For the first time since she had left Albuquerque, Ines was not thinking about the house. She was thinking about the road, and how much of it was still in front of her.

(1) The bus left Albuquerque a little after midnight, and by the time the sky began to gray, Ines had counted forty-one mile markers and given up on sleep. She had brought a pillow from home, the flat blue one from the couch, but it smelled like her kitchen and made her homesick, so she kept it in her lap instead.

(2) She was sixty-three years old, and she had never been farther west than Gallup. Now she was going all the way to Sacramento, more than a thousand miles, because her granddaughter Lucy was graduating from nursing school and had written, in a card with a cartoon owl on it, You HAVE to come, Abuela. No excuses this time.

(3) There had always been excuses. The restaurant where Ines cooked for thirty years did not give vacations to people who wanted to keep their jobs. Then her husband got sick, and there was no question of leaving him. Then he was gone, and the house felt too large to leave, as if it might forget her if she turned her back on it.

(4) The young man in the seat beside her woke near Flagstaff. He had a guitar case wedged between his knees and a face that looked as though it had not yet decided what kind of grown man it would be.

(5) "Where you headed?" he asked.

(6) "Sacramento. My granddaughter is graduating."

(7) "Nice." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to L.A. Got an audition." He said it the way people say they have a winning lottery ticket they haven't checked yet—proud, and afraid to look.

(8) Ines nodded. She did not ask what kind of audition. She knew something about hoping for things out loud.

(9) In the desert, the land opened up like a hand. Ines had expected emptiness, but the empty was full: red rock stacked in shelves, a hawk turning slow circles, a single trailer with laundry snapping on a line, miles from anything. She pressed her forehead to the cold window. Ruben would have loved this, she thought. He had always talked about driving to the ocean. They had always said next year.

(10) At a gas station in Kingman, the bus stopped for twenty minutes. Ines bought two coffees and handed one to the young man without asking. He looked at it, then at her.

(11) "My mother would do that," he said.

(12) "Your mother is a smart woman."

(13) He laughed, and for the first time looked his age, which Ines guessed was nineteen. He told her his name was Marcus. He told her his mother didn't want him to go, that she said music was a hobby and not a life. He had taken the money from his summer job and bought the ticket anyway.

(14) "Do you think I'm being stupid?" he asked.

(15) Ines turned the coffee cup in her hands. She thought of all the next years that had turned into never. She thought of the cartoon owl.

(16) "I think," she said slowly, "that your mother is afraid. Being afraid for someone and being right about them are two different things."

(17) Marcus was quiet for a long time. Then he unlatched the guitar case and, very softly, so as not to wake the man snoring across the aisle, began to play. It was not a song Ines knew. It sounded like the desert looked: wide and patient, with something hidden in it.

(18) They crossed into California in the late afternoon. At Barstow, Marcus had to change buses. He stood in the aisle with the guitar case bumping his knees and seemed unsure how to say goodbye.

(19) "Good luck at your audition," Ines said. "Call your mother when it's over. Whatever happens."

(20) "Good luck at the graduation," he said, and then, as if he had just understood something, "You came a long way for it."

(21) "Yes," she said. "I did."

(22) After he left, the seat beside her felt very empty. Ines put the blue pillow there, then took it back and held it against her chest. Outside, the light was turning gold over the hills. Somewhere ahead was Lucy in a white uniform, waiting to look out at the audience and find her face. For the first time since she had left Albuquerque, Ines was not thinking about the house. She was thinking about the road, and how much of it was still in front of her.

(1) For most of human history, a clear night meant a sky crowded with stars. Today, most Americans live where the Milky Way can no longer be seen. A 2016 study published in the journal Science Advances estimated that nearly 80 percent of people in North America cannot see the Milky Way from where they live. The cause is not smog or clouds but light: the glow from streetlights, parking lots, billboards, and buildings that spills upward and scatters in the atmosphere.

(2) Scientists call this problem light pollution, and it takes three main forms. Skyglow is the brightening of the night sky over populated areas, visible from dozens of miles away as a dome of orange or white light. Glare is excessive brightness that causes visual discomfort, the dazzle of an unshielded light that makes it harder, not easier, to see. Light trespass is light that falls where it is not wanted or needed, such as a neighbor's floodlight shining through a bedroom window.

(3) Light pollution affects more than stargazing. Many animals depend on darkness. Newly hatched sea turtles find the ocean by moving toward the brightest horizon, which on an undeveloped beach is the moonlit water; on developed coasts, many hatchlings crawl toward roads and buildings instead. Migrating birds, many of which travel at night, can become disoriented by brightly lit buildings, and millions die each year in the United States in collisions with buildings. Insects swarm around lights by the billions, which disrupts their feeding and breeding and removes food that bats and birds rely on.

(4) People may be affected as well. The human body follows a roughly 24-hour cycle, called a circadian rhythm, that is regulated partly by light. Exposure to bright light at night can suppress melatonin, a hormone that helps regulate sleep. Researchers are still studying how much outdoor lighting contributes to sleep problems, compared with indoor sources such as phones and televisions, but the American Medical Association has issued guidance urging communities to reduce harmful glare and to choose streetlights that give off less blue light.

(5) Unlike many environmental problems, light pollution can be reduced quickly and often cheaply. The most important step is shielding: using fixtures that point light downward, toward the ground where it is needed, rather than sideways and up into the sky. Communities can also use dimmers and timers so that lights in parking lots and office buildings are not blazing at 3 a.m. when no one is around, and they can choose warmer-colored bulbs that scatter less in the atmosphere. Because wasted light is wasted electricity, these changes frequently pay for themselves through lower energy bills.

(6) Some cities have already acted. Flagstaff, Arizona, home to Lowell Observatory, adopted one of the world's first outdoor lighting ordinances in 1958, and in 2001 it was named the first International Dark Sky City. Flagstaff's experience suggests that a city can grow while keeping its skies dark: its population has more than tripled since the ordinance passed, yet the Milky Way remains visible from many neighborhoods.

(7) Critics of strict lighting rules raise reasonable concerns. Business owners worry that dimmer parking lots will make customers feel unsafe, and some residents believe that more light always means less crime. The evidence on this point is mixed: some studies have found that better street lighting reduces certain crimes, while others have found no clear effect. What lighting experts generally agree on is that the quality of light matters more than the quantity. A well-shielded fixture that lights a sidewalk evenly can help people see better than a glaring one that leaves deep shadows beside it.

(8) A starry sky was once the shared inheritance of every person on Earth. Unlike a lost forest or an extinct species, though, it can return almost as soon as we decide to bring it back.

(1) For most of human history, a clear night meant a sky crowded with stars. Today, most Americans live where the Milky Way can no longer be seen. A 2016 study published in the journal Science Advances estimated that nearly 80 percent of people in North America cannot see the Milky Way from where they live. The cause is not smog or clouds but light: the glow from streetlights, parking lots, billboards, and buildings that spills upward and scatters in the atmosphere.

(2) Scientists call this problem light pollution, and it takes three main forms. Skyglow is the brightening of the night sky over populated areas, visible from dozens of miles away as a dome of orange or white light. Glare is excessive brightness that causes visual discomfort, the dazzle of an unshielded light that makes it harder, not easier, to see. Light trespass is light that falls where it is not wanted or needed, such as a neighbor's floodlight shining through a bedroom window.

(3) Light pollution affects more than stargazing. Many animals depend on darkness. Newly hatched sea turtles find the ocean by moving toward the brightest horizon, which on an undeveloped beach is the moonlit water; on developed coasts, many hatchlings crawl toward roads and buildings instead. Migrating birds, many of which travel at night, can become disoriented by brightly lit buildings, and millions die each year in the United States in collisions with buildings. Insects swarm around lights by the billions, which disrupts their feeding and breeding and removes food that bats and birds rely on.

(4) People may be affected as well. The human body follows a roughly 24-hour cycle, called a circadian rhythm, that is regulated partly by light. Exposure to bright light at night can suppress melatonin, a hormone that helps regulate sleep. Researchers are still studying how much outdoor lighting contributes to sleep problems, compared with indoor sources such as phones and televisions, but the American Medical Association has issued guidance urging communities to reduce harmful glare and to choose streetlights that give off less blue light.

(5) Unlike many environmental problems, light pollution can be reduced quickly and often cheaply. The most important step is shielding: using fixtures that point light downward, toward the ground where it is needed, rather than sideways and up into the sky. Communities can also use dimmers and timers so that lights in parking lots and office buildings are not blazing at 3 a.m. when no one is around, and they can choose warmer-colored bulbs that scatter less in the atmosphere. Because wasted light is wasted electricity, these changes frequently pay for themselves through lower energy bills.

(6) Some cities have already acted. Flagstaff, Arizona, home to Lowell Observatory, adopted one of the world's first outdoor lighting ordinances in 1958, and in 2001 it was named the first International Dark Sky City. Flagstaff's experience suggests that a city can grow while keeping its skies dark: its population has more than tripled since the ordinance passed, yet the Milky Way remains visible from many neighborhoods.

(7) Critics of strict lighting rules raise reasonable concerns. Business owners worry that dimmer parking lots will make customers feel unsafe, and some residents believe that more light always means less crime. The evidence on this point is mixed: some studies have found that better street lighting reduces certain crimes, while others have found no clear effect. What lighting experts generally agree on is that the quality of light matters more than the quantity. A well-shielded fixture that lights a sidewalk evenly can help people see better than a glaring one that leaves deep shadows beside it.

(8) A starry sky was once the shared inheritance of every person on Earth. Unlike a lost forest or an extinct species, though, it can return almost as soon as we decide to bring it back.

(1) For most of human history, a clear night meant a sky crowded with stars. Today, most Americans live where the Milky Way can no longer be seen. A 2016 study published in the journal Science Advances estimated that nearly 80 percent of people in North America cannot see the Milky Way from where they live. The cause is not smog or clouds but light: the glow from streetlights, parking lots, billboards, and buildings that spills upward and scatters in the atmosphere.

(2) Scientists call this problem light pollution, and it takes three main forms. Skyglow is the brightening of the night sky over populated areas, visible from dozens of miles away as a dome of orange or white light. Glare is excessive brightness that causes visual discomfort, the dazzle of an unshielded light that makes it harder, not easier, to see. Light trespass is light that falls where it is not wanted or needed, such as a neighbor's floodlight shining through a bedroom window.

(3) Light pollution affects more than stargazing. Many animals depend on darkness. Newly hatched sea turtles find the ocean by moving toward the brightest horizon, which on an undeveloped beach is the moonlit water; on developed coasts, many hatchlings crawl toward roads and buildings instead. Migrating birds, many of which travel at night, can become disoriented by brightly lit buildings, and millions die each year in the United States in collisions with buildings. Insects swarm around lights by the billions, which disrupts their feeding and breeding and removes food that bats and birds rely on.

(4) People may be affected as well. The human body follows a roughly 24-hour cycle, called a circadian rhythm, that is regulated partly by light. Exposure to bright light at night can suppress melatonin, a hormone that helps regulate sleep. Researchers are still studying how much outdoor lighting contributes to sleep problems, compared with indoor sources such as phones and televisions, but the American Medical Association has issued guidance urging communities to reduce harmful glare and to choose streetlights that give off less blue light.

(5) Unlike many environmental problems, light pollution can be reduced quickly and often cheaply. The most important step is shielding: using fixtures that point light downward, toward the ground where it is needed, rather than sideways and up into the sky. Communities can also use dimmers and timers so that lights in parking lots and office buildings are not blazing at 3 a.m. when no one is around, and they can choose warmer-colored bulbs that scatter less in the atmosphere. Because wasted light is wasted electricity, these changes frequently pay for themselves through lower energy bills.

(6) Some cities have already acted. Flagstaff, Arizona, home to Lowell Observatory, adopted one of the world's first outdoor lighting ordinances in 1958, and in 2001 it was named the first International Dark Sky City. Flagstaff's experience suggests that a city can grow while keeping its skies dark: its population has more than tripled since the ordinance passed, yet the Milky Way remains visible from many neighborhoods.

(7) Critics of strict lighting rules raise reasonable concerns. Business owners worry that dimmer parking lots will make customers feel unsafe, and some residents believe that more light always means less crime. The evidence on this point is mixed: some studies have found that better street lighting reduces certain crimes, while others have found no clear effect. What lighting experts generally agree on is that the quality of light matters more than the quantity. A well-shielded fixture that lights a sidewalk evenly can help people see better than a glaring one that leaves deep shadows beside it.

(8) A starry sky was once the shared inheritance of every person on Earth. Unlike a lost forest or an extinct species, though, it can return almost as soon as we decide to bring it back.

(1) The bell over the door of Kowalski's Radio & TV Repair had not rung in three days when the girl came in. Henry Kowalski looked up from the workbench, where the insides of a 1962 table radio lay spread across a towel like the parts of a small animal.

(2) "Do you fix phones?" she asked. She was maybe sixteen, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a phone held in both hands, the way a person might carry a bird that had flown into a window.

(3) "Phones," Henry said, "do not want to be fixed." He meant it as a joke, but she did not smile. He took off his glasses. "Let me see."

(4) The screen was shattered into a spiderweb, and the phone would not turn on. The girl explained that it had fallen from the bleachers at a basketball game. The store at the mall had told her it would cost more to repair than to replace.

(5) "So replace it," Henry said gently. "Isn't that what everyone does?"

(6) "My dad's voicemails are on it." She said it to the counter, not to him. "He used to call me every day on his way home from work. I never deleted them. It's the only place I have his voice."

(7) Henry was quiet. Through the front window, the late-afternoon sun lit the dust in the air so that it looked like something precious, slowly falling.

(8) For forty years, he had opened things. Radios, televisions, record players, once a jukebox from a diner that had since become a bank. Every one of them had screws you could turn and parts you could see, and if you were patient, each machine would tell you what was wrong with it. This phone was sealed like an egg. There were no screws he recognized, only tiny star-shaped ones the size of a pencil point.

(9) "I don't know if I can help you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend."

(10) "That's okay." She began to reach for it.

(11) "But," he said, and his hand stayed on the phone, "I didn't say I wouldn't try."

(12) It took him a week. He ordered a set of tiny screwdrivers from a catalog and watched repair videos on the computer his son had given him, which until then he had used only to check the weather. He practiced on two broken phones he bought for five dollars apiece at a flea market. The first one he ruined completely. The second he got open, and then closed again, and then open, until his hands stopped shaking.

(13) He did not try to fix her screen. He only needed the phone to wake up long enough to save what was inside. When at last it flickered on, cracked and dim, he sat back in his chair and let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the day she came in.

(14) When the girl returned, he handed her a small silver flash drive along with the phone. "Everything's on there," he said. "Make copies. Keep one somewhere that isn't a phone."

(15) She held the drive in her fist. "How much do I owe you?"

(16) Henry looked around the shop: the shelves of tubes and dials, the radios no one had come back for. "You already paid," he said. "I learned something new. At my age, that's hard to find."

(17) After she left, he picked up the 1962 radio again. It seemed simpler than it had a week ago, and somehow less interesting. He found himself wondering what else was out there, sealed up tight, waiting for someone patient enough to open it.

(1) The bell over the door of Kowalski's Radio & TV Repair had not rung in three days when the girl came in. Henry Kowalski looked up from the workbench, where the insides of a 1962 table radio lay spread across a towel like the parts of a small animal.

(2) "Do you fix phones?" she asked. She was maybe sixteen, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a phone held in both hands, the way a person might carry a bird that had flown into a window.

(3) "Phones," Henry said, "do not want to be fixed." He meant it as a joke, but she did not smile. He took off his glasses. "Let me see."

(4) The screen was shattered into a spiderweb, and the phone would not turn on. The girl explained that it had fallen from the bleachers at a basketball game. The store at the mall had told her it would cost more to repair than to replace.

(5) "So replace it," Henry said gently. "Isn't that what everyone does?"

(6) "My dad's voicemails are on it." She said it to the counter, not to him. "He used to call me every day on his way home from work. I never deleted them. It's the only place I have his voice."

(7) Henry was quiet. Through the front window, the late-afternoon sun lit the dust in the air so that it looked like something precious, slowly falling.

(8) For forty years, he had opened things. Radios, televisions, record players, once a jukebox from a diner that had since become a bank. Every one of them had screws you could turn and parts you could see, and if you were patient, each machine would tell you what was wrong with it. This phone was sealed like an egg. There were no screws he recognized, only tiny star-shaped ones the size of a pencil point.

(9) "I don't know if I can help you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend."

(10) "That's okay." She began to reach for it.

(11) "But," he said, and his hand stayed on the phone, "I didn't say I wouldn't try."

(12) It took him a week. He ordered a set of tiny screwdrivers from a catalog and watched repair videos on the computer his son had given him, which until then he had used only to check the weather. He practiced on two broken phones he bought for five dollars apiece at a flea market. The first one he ruined completely. The second he got open, and then closed again, and then open, until his hands stopped shaking.

(13) He did not try to fix her screen. He only needed the phone to wake up long enough to save what was inside. When at last it flickered on, cracked and dim, he sat back in his chair and let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the day she came in.

(14) When the girl returned, he handed her a small silver flash drive along with the phone. "Everything's on there," he said. "Make copies. Keep one somewhere that isn't a phone."

(15) She held the drive in her fist. "How much do I owe you?"

(16) Henry looked around the shop: the shelves of tubes and dials, the radios no one had come back for. "You already paid," he said. "I learned something new. At my age, that's hard to find."

(17) After she left, he picked up the 1962 radio again. It seemed simpler than it had a week ago, and somehow less interesting. He found himself wondering what else was out there, sealed up tight, waiting for someone patient enough to open it.

(1) The bell over the door of Kowalski's Radio & TV Repair had not rung in three days when the girl came in. Henry Kowalski looked up from the workbench, where the insides of a 1962 table radio lay spread across a towel like the parts of a small animal.

(2) "Do you fix phones?" she asked. She was maybe sixteen, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a phone held in both hands, the way a person might carry a bird that had flown into a window.

(3) "Phones," Henry said, "do not want to be fixed." He meant it as a joke, but she did not smile. He took off his glasses. "Let me see."

(4) The screen was shattered into a spiderweb, and the phone would not turn on. The girl explained that it had fallen from the bleachers at a basketball game. The store at the mall had told her it would cost more to repair than to replace.

(5) "So replace it," Henry said gently. "Isn't that what everyone does?"

(6) "My dad's voicemails are on it." She said it to the counter, not to him. "He used to call me every day on his way home from work. I never deleted them. It's the only place I have his voice."

(7) Henry was quiet. Through the front window, the late-afternoon sun lit the dust in the air so that it looked like something precious, slowly falling.

(8) For forty years, he had opened things. Radios, televisions, record players, once a jukebox from a diner that had since become a bank. Every one of them had screws you could turn and parts you could see, and if you were patient, each machine would tell you what was wrong with it. This phone was sealed like an egg. There were no screws he recognized, only tiny star-shaped ones the size of a pencil point.

(9) "I don't know if I can help you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend."

(10) "That's okay." She began to reach for it.

(11) "But," he said, and his hand stayed on the phone, "I didn't say I wouldn't try."

(12) It took him a week. He ordered a set of tiny screwdrivers from a catalog and watched repair videos on the computer his son had given him, which until then he had used only to check the weather. He practiced on two broken phones he bought for five dollars apiece at a flea market. The first one he ruined completely. The second he got open, and then closed again, and then open, until his hands stopped shaking.

(13) He did not try to fix her screen. He only needed the phone to wake up long enough to save what was inside. When at last it flickered on, cracked and dim, he sat back in his chair and let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the day she came in.

(14) When the girl returned, he handed her a small silver flash drive along with the phone. "Everything's on there," he said. "Make copies. Keep one somewhere that isn't a phone."

(15) She held the drive in her fist. "How much do I owe you?"

(16) Henry looked around the shop: the shelves of tubes and dials, the radios no one had come back for. "You already paid," he said. "I learned something new. At my age, that's hard to find."

(17) After she left, he picked up the 1962 radio again. It seemed simpler than it had a week ago, and somehow less interesting. He found himself wondering what else was out there, sealed up tight, waiting for someone patient enough to open it.

(1) The bell over the door of Kowalski's Radio & TV Repair had not rung in three days when the girl came in. Henry Kowalski looked up from the workbench, where the insides of a 1962 table radio lay spread across a towel like the parts of a small animal.

(2) "Do you fix phones?" she asked. She was maybe sixteen, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a phone held in both hands, the way a person might carry a bird that had flown into a window.

(3) "Phones," Henry said, "do not want to be fixed." He meant it as a joke, but she did not smile. He took off his glasses. "Let me see."

(4) The screen was shattered into a spiderweb, and the phone would not turn on. The girl explained that it had fallen from the bleachers at a basketball game. The store at the mall had told her it would cost more to repair than to replace.

(5) "So replace it," Henry said gently. "Isn't that what everyone does?"

(6) "My dad's voicemails are on it." She said it to the counter, not to him. "He used to call me every day on his way home from work. I never deleted them. It's the only place I have his voice."

(7) Henry was quiet. Through the front window, the late-afternoon sun lit the dust in the air so that it looked like something precious, slowly falling.

(8) For forty years, he had opened things. Radios, televisions, record players, once a jukebox from a diner that had since become a bank. Every one of them had screws you could turn and parts you could see, and if you were patient, each machine would tell you what was wrong with it. This phone was sealed like an egg. There were no screws he recognized, only tiny star-shaped ones the size of a pencil point.

(9) "I don't know if I can help you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend."

(10) "That's okay." She began to reach for it.

(11) "But," he said, and his hand stayed on the phone, "I didn't say I wouldn't try."

(12) It took him a week. He ordered a set of tiny screwdrivers from a catalog and watched repair videos on the computer his son had given him, which until then he had used only to check the weather. He practiced on two broken phones he bought for five dollars apiece at a flea market. The first one he ruined completely. The second he got open, and then closed again, and then open, until his hands stopped shaking.

(13) He did not try to fix her screen. He only needed the phone to wake up long enough to save what was inside. When at last it flickered on, cracked and dim, he sat back in his chair and let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the day she came in.

(14) When the girl returned, he handed her a small silver flash drive along with the phone. "Everything's on there," he said. "Make copies. Keep one somewhere that isn't a phone."

(15) She held the drive in her fist. "How much do I owe you?"

(16) Henry looked around the shop: the shelves of tubes and dials, the radios no one had come back for. "You already paid," he said. "I learned something new. At my age, that's hard to find."

(17) After she left, he picked up the 1962 radio again. It seemed simpler than it had a week ago, and somehow less interesting. He found himself wondering what else was out there, sealed up tight, waiting for someone patient enough to open it.

(1) The bell over the door of Kowalski's Radio & TV Repair had not rung in three days when the girl came in. Henry Kowalski looked up from the workbench, where the insides of a 1962 table radio lay spread across a towel like the parts of a small animal.

(2) "Do you fix phones?" she asked. She was maybe sixteen, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a phone held in both hands, the way a person might carry a bird that had flown into a window.

(3) "Phones," Henry said, "do not want to be fixed." He meant it as a joke, but she did not smile. He took off his glasses. "Let me see."

(4) The screen was shattered into a spiderweb, and the phone would not turn on. The girl explained that it had fallen from the bleachers at a basketball game. The store at the mall had told her it would cost more to repair than to replace.

(5) "So replace it," Henry said gently. "Isn't that what everyone does?"

(6) "My dad's voicemails are on it." She said it to the counter, not to him. "He used to call me every day on his way home from work. I never deleted them. It's the only place I have his voice."

(7) Henry was quiet. Through the front window, the late-afternoon sun lit the dust in the air so that it looked like something precious, slowly falling.

(8) For forty years, he had opened things. Radios, televisions, record players, once a jukebox from a diner that had since become a bank. Every one of them had screws you could turn and parts you could see, and if you were patient, each machine would tell you what was wrong with it. This phone was sealed like an egg. There were no screws he recognized, only tiny star-shaped ones the size of a pencil point.

(9) "I don't know if I can help you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend."

(10) "That's okay." She began to reach for it.

(11) "But," he said, and his hand stayed on the phone, "I didn't say I wouldn't try."

(12) It took him a week. He ordered a set of tiny screwdrivers from a catalog and watched repair videos on the computer his son had given him, which until then he had used only to check the weather. He practiced on two broken phones he bought for five dollars apiece at a flea market. The first one he ruined completely. The second he got open, and then closed again, and then open, until his hands stopped shaking.

(13) He did not try to fix her screen. He only needed the phone to wake up long enough to save what was inside. When at last it flickered on, cracked and dim, he sat back in his chair and let out a breath he felt he had been holding since the day she came in.

(14) When the girl returned, he handed her a small silver flash drive along with the phone. "Everything's on there," he said. "Make copies. Keep one somewhere that isn't a phone."

(15) She held the drive in her fist. "How much do I owe you?"

(16) Henry looked around the shop: the shelves of tubes and dials, the radios no one had come back for. "You already paid," he said. "I learned something new. At my age, that's hard to find."

(17) After she left, he picked up the 1962 radio again. It seemed simpler than it had a week ago, and somehow less interesting. He found himself wondering what else was out there, sealed up tight, waiting for someone patient enough to open it.