by Meisha Rosenberg

“Sniper,” asserts my six-year-old son. His police survey the Lego family of the empty wooden doll house. Stand-ins for us mutely stub about: mother, father, son, and, playing the part of our German Shepherd mix, a Schleich replica. “Wait,” I say, “You can’t arrest someone if you don’t have a witness.” The therapist has told me to do this, to insert my comments, help my son learn other perspectives.

The wind outside pushes clouds, making their shadows fall on the doll house. “There must be some mistake,” I simper, not knowing any other voice for a mother, nor when I began filling and emptying cups, mornings all so early.

The police follow the two-inch Lego father, although there are no stairs for him, in his checkered red shirt, 3 o’clock shadow, no-knee legs that pop off. We follow, rising to the attic, where the officer scans us with his ultrasonic detector. “Drugs,” my officer-son concludes.

How does he already know?

How willingly we go into the Playmobil van, where I negotiate for our release. My talk of rights is not acknowledged by the spy, flamboyant in orange and white—the Lord of the disco with surveillance headgear—recruited to be taxi driver. After he drops us off, the police shoot him.

Our figures get home, feed the dog, and, collapsing on the floor, see there are no locks or latches and the wind and clouds pass through us.