“Cold grazes fat on the corpse of summer’s dew.” “True.” I rip off a chunk of bread and toss it to her. “It would be easier.” She catches it with both hands and disappears behind a curtain of hair. Face, bread, and all. Squatted down, hunched over like a gargoyle. Growling as if someone might try to steal it. My wife. My eyes burn and I turn away. Try to focus on the little blue ...