When called, I come. I fetch what was flung far afield and bring it back, if not broken then newer than new. I'm not the only one who's ever left parcels at the door; who dismantles heat from the burn, scab from scar, webbed poultice from the wound. Observe how, in little children, the mouth opens in a soundless cry before the mind registers the hurt. Out of the hollow of the throat, a vibration to exceed the bonds holding molecules of glass together. What a surprise to learn breaking can also be achieved an octave lower.