I was in Japan, sitting in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn, practicing how to use chopsticks. It felt ordinary, almost playful—learning something new while the TV played in the background. The Challenger launch was on live television. Everyone on the screen was speaking Japanese. I didn’t understand what anyone was saying, but I recognized what I was watching. I saw the astronauts walk onto the shuttle. Then I saw them walk back off. I remember feeling puzzled—like I was missing something important because of the language. And then it exploded. I froze. I kept waiting for an explanation that never came—because I couldn’t understand the words. The broadcasters kept talking, but none of it reached me. I didn’t know if this was an accident, a replay, a mistake, or something else entirely. I just knew what I’d seen didn’t make sense. Being so far from home, unable to understand the language in a moment like that, was terrifying. I couldn’t place the event in reality. I couldn’t tell if the shock I felt was shared or if I was alone in it. So I got up and ran. I ran down the street to my agent’s house—Gloria’s—because I needed someone to tell me what had just happened. I needed confirmation. I needed language. I needed grounding. Some moments stay with us not because we understand them—but because we don’t. This was one of those moments.