I don't know anything about anything important. I don't know the names of the birds or the constellations or plants or even my own blood type. I don't even know what kind of tree my tree is. What I do know, though, is that my tree is alive. After careful staring I've determined that I can see the slightest beginnings of buds. It's a relief, but I would like to have met Roger Cooke. Now, I've got to keep my eye on this tree, because any minute now it will be all leaves, and I want to see it happen.

The evenings are perfect now. Kids on all sorts of wheels go rolling up and down the street, shouting words I don't understand. These curtains were a perfect idea, because I can sit in front of the window and talk on the phone to Sam about why the reception is so terrible, and how certain neighborhoods don't exist because he just made them up in his head, and the people I see out there can't see me. After a while the kids stop rolling by because the sun has gone down and their timers have gone off, and it's time to go home and roll around inside until the next day comes.