Let’s not read into it, but I got into my first and only car crash the same day I tried to move to the city where you live. I sat numb in the left lane with a bruise across my breastbone, holding up traffic, hood smoking on the hot tarmac until the tow truck came to haul me back home.
As I arrive at the Institute and the heater sinks me in stuffy-warm air, I realize I haven’t spoken to you in nearly six years. It’s an icy day. The snow stacks knee-high, floods walkways, turning them to marsh, and the sky is empty—pale white like a beluga whale.
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