This burnt-out shell of a car was festering in the parking lot of a convent school. It was a quiet April afternoon in a well-to-do section of Dublin, and apart from the ruins of a car, there was nothing at all amiss in the surroundings: birds chirping, leaves blowing softly in the breeze. The parish office was open, so I went in and asked the nice old ladies about it. It turned out to be the handiwork of a teenage pupil, and the car happened to belong to the parish priest. A dumpster had also been set on fire, and the air was fresh with the smells of burnt rubber. The school has, two years later, since closed down and the car was towed away without ceremony or fanfare. Some answers raise more questions than they answer. And some sights are all the more terrifying, more beautiful for being so out of place.