The room is a riot of newspaper, boxes, and shit you put on a shelf and forget about. It’s on the floor too, porcelain birds and ponies, Gallic men and women in frozen poses. I’m afraid I’m going to step on something and break it. We’re doing the knick-knacks now but I’m eyeing the big stuff—the bed, the old rabbit-eared Zenith that still works, the huge easy chair downstairs. How do I ask without asking? I’m working this over in my mind.
