One day, as he was subsiding from a particularly fierce temblor, I looked at him squarely and said, "You know, son. We have a word for this feeling. I would like to tell you that word. Is that OK?" He nodded, still crying. "It is called being 'frustrated.' You are feeling frustrated. Can you say 'frustrated'?" He suddenly looked at me as if he had been hit by a train. "Frustrated! I am FRUSTRATED!!" Still sobbing, he grabbed my leg, holding on for dear life. "Frustrated! Frustrated! Frustrated!" he kept repeating, as if the words were some kind of harness tossed to him from a first responder. He quickly calmed down.