When I went in to get my PTSD erased, they didn’t tell me about the reverbs—unwanted resonances of past events that circle back anyway, like an old muscle tear flaring up. So when I recall my Super Bowl party, the fourth quarter was ruined by automatic gunfire outside. Remembering the first time Sarah came home with me, the taxi someone grabbed from us got flipped by an IED. During Lee’s birth, we had to whisk the screaming newborn underground as suicide bombers invaded the hospital; Sarah didn’t make it. Absurd—of course that could only happen over there, not here. Right?