The immensity of the mountain looms over us, the sky forms a ceiling of wild and bubbly clouds. The water in the lake gently breaks on the shore a few feet away from us; a small but consistent lapping at the land. Dad has locked the keys in the car, and we all stand around peering at them through the front driver side window. They are in the ignition, ready to be turned, waiting to start the car to take us home. But we are out here, looking in, wondering what to do. I think we will be stuck here forever, so I start making a plan. I say we could live on fish from the lake, and I start looking for a stick big enough to make into a rod. I start collecting firewood too, and as I turn around I see my dad pick up a large rock. With his gentle hand he taps it against the drivers side window. I wonder what he’s doing, and with the next tap, harder this time, I understand. The flat glass panel shatters, becoming a hundred thousand component parts. Dad reaches in through the new aperture, and unlocks the car. He gets a carrier bag from the boot, opens the driver side door and brushes the sharp shards into the bag. Several shards spill onto the gravel by the door, the small rocks cut through with islands of translucent blue. Glass, gravel and filtered light play with one another, a Mandelbrot derivative of never-ending microscopic depth. I walk out to the edge of the water. Leaves lay in the shallow water, the cloak of floating flora disturbed by the quivering legs of a saturated hoverfly.