During the summer, when I was a visiting poet at a residency out of state, an angry, confused woman wandered into my class and said "I have three guns and I want to use them." We all (_26_). It wasn't clear if she had the guns, but we each know that, when we teach in America, we are already in danger.

I was dizzy with fear. The woman, who later turned out to be a schizophrenic （精神分裂症患者） without (_27_) to her medications, was, by some force, wrestled out and (_28_) away, then put in a hospital for observation, in a step that was actually safer for everyone than any one of us pressing charges. My class went on; we talked about poems. But despite the fact that the rest of our days on campus passed (_29_), I was rattled. I couldn't shake the sense that in this country we always live at (_30_) risk.

A few months later, crisis (_31_) again. While my husband was locking his bike to drop off our 3-year-old daughter for her preschool-aged day camp, a different woman approached. Swiftly and for no (_32_) reason, she bent down, picked up our daughter, and began to carry her down the street. It was so fast and confusing that my daughter (_33_) cried. My husband, in a burst of speed, chased the woman and reclaimed our daughter. The woman, clearly confused, retreated into the public library. A (_34_) of homeless people who generally know the other homeless in the area said they did not recognize the woman. The woman was so clearly unwell that when she was taken into custody she was incoherent. Heartbreakingly, she called our daughter by the name of someone else's child. Each part of the episode was as haunting as it was (_35_).