sing it

Everyone has a story.

Tonight it's the man who recalled to us his memory of the military helicopter drawing overhead (ordered there by the governor), blades thundering above the students as they scattered, and dropping a payload of tear gas. He remembers being the last off the plaza, running and stumbling as he ran, catching himself on the heels of his hands and finding himself face-to-face with a copy of Kristin Lavransdatter. He picked it up, lungs and eyes full of gas. There was shooting. None of it fatal, but apparently it afforded plenty of time for catching up on Norwegian fiction.