The shingles are flying off the roofin one line like a road you have to walk. Please don’t scratch your hair until that section of your mind underneath disappears. Stop pouring your tea into air vents and the potholes in the street. You have a jar of cold water and a bag full of cranberries, exactly twenty-one. I’ve tied names like Astrid and Ingrid with twine to my steering wheel; and really, there’s only a year and a thousand miles between all our wooden chairs and yours. I wouldn’t worry.