Thousand: Seven Hundred Forty-Eight

at the Dallas International Airport, third degree burns over ninety percent of its body, likely would have been less of a miracle if the angel entrusted with its life hadn’t been chasing migrating geese into the jet engines. Nobody calls the average daily workings of the world a miracle. You eat your sandwich and somehow incorporate its nutrients. No miracle. You walk down the street, and a cement truck does not careen suddenly onto the sidewalk, crushing your soft body against the flowery embankment. Not a miracle! Well, who knows from miracles? You pick up the remote from a cushion