On the bridge it was hot and breathless and all of a sudden it seemed obvious that the plan was never going to work or maybe that this had been the plan. I worried about the boys like I always do. Just kids and all it takes is one rock, plus we could hear gunshots across the river every once in a while. Everything deteriorated so quickly, and suddenly this unfamiliar place took on a familiar rhythm. A bridge is a terrible place for a riot. We all knew the truck fire story didn't quite make sense, but there it was, burning. The morning had been so hopeful, in retrospect i have no idea why. I guess everyone needed it. The next day, after absolutely nothing had happened but chaos, the boys were sleeping under the bridge still. A political type with a button up shirt pulled too tight over his belly came down to their little camp of balled fists and told them that the plan had been a success and they could all go home now. One of them asked, "what home?"