Our woodworking teacher in first year high school told us in our first lesson to treat the bandsaw with great respect.

He started it up. The blade blurred up to speed; the whole thing stood taller than a man, and hummed with purpose. It was like it had woken up, come alive…

He whipped a lamb shank out from behind his back and shoved it onto the band in one movement. There was the smallest “zzzt” sound. The bandsaw didn’t even slow down. Its sound didn’t change. He turned it off and it whined into silence. He held up the stump. The other half lay on the sawbed. The silence extended.

He said “that could have been your finger, your wrist or your arm. Do not fuck with this machine.”