What you do instead, if you are any good, is you stop.

You go quiet.

And you listen.

Because the machine is telling you where the failure began.

The knock, the grind, the particular pitch of the wrongness — the noise tells you the truth if you can master yourself long enough to hear it, and only once you know where the break really is do you reach in and touch it.

Standing behind that fence, shaking with a rage I had never felt before in my life, I heard that lesson in my own head as clearly as if a foreman were saying it. Listen before you touch it. If I crashed through that door right now, roaring, I would get exactly what my mother wanted me to get: a chaotic scene, my own anger turned into evidence against me, and a story that everyone in that house had already rehearsed.

Phedra would be ushered out of sight.