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Startled, a killdeer rises, its call a chuckle, a ripped chord. The tide rides high tonight, sea snails dribbling past sprinklers. None of us belongs here or we all belong. Pre-dawn, parents enter the lettuce, the strawberry, the artichoke fields. Their children crest our campus at eight. No cafe con leche or pan dulce mutes the regimental signage--Artillery Range, Wolfpack Brigade, First Infantry. The call to arms lingers at this former fort, a canvas of fading skull and bones, crossed rifles, leering buccaneers. Students' eyes trace maritime dunes, cloud cover, passing faces, listen for ancient footfalls, fault lines, incoming artillery: faint echoes. Like the killdeer, tricked into thinking no danger rides the lawn, doubt unhinges reason. Their eyes shriek they're not really here, but home interpreting for parents, babysitting siblings, preparing for the end-of-year crossing. ...