And things start to feel a little weirder. His eyes feel lost, struggling to comprehend the BMW collision center before him. He stares with great conviction, scrambling to decipher the prophetic vision before his eyes. Across the street ? walking past the dead end street sign ? is a kid. It?s an ARAB KID, maybe 10 or 12. And beneath his arm is an unmistakable shape. IT?S A HUGE BOX OF FIREWORKS. A huge vacant lot. A few gullies of nature sandwiched between disparate neighborhoods. Auto watches from a covert distance at the Arab kid tromps down a dusty path. It cuts across the ravine over to an abandoned shack. Auto watches. The kid surveys the shack.
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