When I was nine years old, my family took a road trip across the American Southwest, including a stop at Petrified Forest National Park. Over the previous week, I had already acquired a few souvenirs, but the mysterious, multi-colored stones at the park caught my eye. Before I could ask, I saw the signs at the museum, warning not only of the guilt (and possible criminal charges) that follow anyone who removes a stone, but also of the people who had taken them anyway, and how they’d lived to regret…
