Woody made me brass-edged boards with copper edges and smart little tacks. Everything has to be made bigger to fit my book: bigger cradles, bigger backing boards, bigger nipping boards. Work bigger, Trudi insisted three years ago, and now I am equipping an entire bindery with new tools.

In the morning we woke up late, made bread and Amanda packed. The studio is quiet and empty without her, like when the interns left and everyone wandered around aimlessly, making whimpering noises when within earshot of anyone who might dole out sympathy. I was rounding and backing upstairs all afternoon & night and each time someone walked through they said: it's so clean, it's so quiet.

Lindsay, days ago, asks how long we've known each other.
Seven weeks, I say.
But-- she says, surprised. Surprised because we're always together, always facetious, always telling the ends of each others' stories.
You learn a person's stories pretty well when you spend all your time together, I say. You spend all your time together when you live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by nature. And when you spend all your time together you get a little facetious.

I recount this to Amanda.
You know, I didn't think I'd like you in the beginning, she says.
I didn't think I'd like you either! I say.