We worked tenderly at the arrow hatchery, polishing each of the thin obsidian disks as if they were our own before sending them down the conveyors. As if they were children, or had once been children, or, perhaps, would yet be children, someday. It was always the unborn that haunted us. Shaft, fletch, piercing points: the night shift’s concerns. I often cupped my hands to my thinning temples, just to hear the rushing of my blood.