…and the smoke would’ve poured into the hole that the plane was about to come out of.

Dad would’ve left his messages backward, until the machine was empty, and the plane would’ve flown backward away from him, all the way to Boston.

He would’ve taken the elevator to the street and pressed the button for the top floor.

He would’ve walked backward to the subway, and the subway would’ve gone backward through the tunnel, back to our stop.

Dad would’ve gone backward through the turnstile, then swiped his Metrocard backward, then walked home backward as he read the New York Times from right to left.

He would’ve spit coffee into his mug, unbrushed his teeth, and put hair on his face with a razor.

He would’ve gotten back into bed, the alarm would’ve rung backward, he would’ve dreamt backward.

Then he would’ve gotten up again at the end of the night before the worst day.

…We would have been safe.