Un-identical twins riding a microbus circling the ruins of Mexico City lifted up their sunglasses to have a staring contest neither of them could lose. In the rearview mirror, the driver noticed their eyelids were stitched to their eyebrows. It was a politically fashionable thing to do. The driver refused to dodge potholes but they didn’t mind. Their bodies motioned like buckshot in a baby rattle their father the gunsmith used to make. They agreed that in the future the scars from the stitches above their eyes would look like freckles but the driver interrupted and said you’ve got it all wrong. They will look like the constellations my grandmother etched on glass eyes for veterans. The twins fell silent. Then the driver looked back into the rearview mirror. A black piece of porcelain filled in what should have been the driver’s left eye. The twins quit their staring contest and placed the sunglasses back on their noses. At the next stop the driver turned off the engine. Some left to walk home but most stayed on. The driver removed the glass eye from its orbital and handed it to the twins. Everyone else had their eyes open but no one could look at each other straight.