At night I would stay up and drink candlewax made out of crows. The barn was getting colder but I was bewitched by logic and not budging. I'd made camp and already begun to send letters out: You can find me in the lavender. I am scenting your skin.

When it began to warm and the sun would break day up over the hill I had better light to write words in the dirt. I'd counted the doorknobs on the table and tried to figure out where to turn them, but there was nowhere. There was no door.