It had to be the climate, something in the air, or in the soil. Whatever it was, they had flourished. Their relentless roots had penetrated the tarmac of the parking lot, sucking in the concrete. They had spread, enlarged, grown. They were strong. When the night had come, drunken cars would meet their metallic trunks with a screeching clashing crashing noise, spraying shards of glass and flecks of paint all over the lot. But no car would ever complain. These were special traffic lights, you know, the world-famous Crossroads Orphans, cultural icons whose image endorsed fashionable sportswear, the pride of a whole neighbourhood. The same apprehensive and righteous citizens who had tried to uproot them at first eventually accepted this miraculous growth as a personal gift from God. The miracle occurred on Spring Day, when they came alight all together, as a tribute to the new season. At dusk, a silent throng gathered round the lot, sealed off by nervous policemen so that