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Last Monday an eighth-grade student was asked, almost out of the blue, about whether she had a bomb in her backpack.

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Can’t Sarah retire to arctic Alaska already?

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Perhaps the strangest thing about all this was how little I cared about who was responsible for the attack. I’m sure I will. I’m sure one day, when I learn who did this, I’ll lose sleep, and feel rage, real rage, and want to see them (or him, or her) killed. I’ll want blood. I’m no better than anyone else.