The school bus has an arm, and when it extends, all of America stops. I witnessed it on a morning walk. The yellow vehicle halted, lights flashing, and a small red blade swung out from its side bearing one word: STOP. And EVERYTHING stopped. Both directions. A delivery truck. A sports car that had been driving like its driver owed someone money. A police cruiser — the LAW ITSELF — sat obediently behind the little arm. Engines idling, a whole road holding its breath. For what? For one child with an enormous backpack to cross at the speed of a child with an enormous backpack. He dropped a paper. He PICKED IT UP. Two lanes of adult lives, frozen, while a seven-year-old retrieved his homework at his own pace. No one honked. Hear me. NO ONE HONKED. I asked my neighbor about it. He said passing a stopped school bus is one of the few things this country will not forgive you for. "You can mess up a lot here," he said. "Not that." You can mess up a lot here. Not that. A nation that cannot agree on ANYTHING — I have seen your debates — has agreed, completely, without exception, on this: the smallest citizens cross first, and the whole machine waits. The bus folded its arm and rolled on. Traffic resumed. The sports car roared off to its debts. I now stop walking when the arm extends. Pedestrians are not required to. I do not care. When the blade comes out and a whole country goes quiet for one child, you stand still and you watch. It is the best thing your roads do. It might be the best thing anyone's roads do.