She gathers bits and pieces, none of them shiny, rubs her fingers against rough edges, eyes closed, trying to work out how to shape a thing from twigs and strands of fallen hair and a scrap of rust-colored vinyl torn from a school-bus seat. She reaches for a shard of slivered glass, tests its bite against her palm, smooths the wrinkles from a wrapping-paper remnant, tastes the grit of sand dune thrown loose by running feet. Up the hill she climbs in memory, chasing shadows to the sun until there is nothing but descent, and she runs, abandoning control and intention, releasing her grip on the need for this particular telling. At the bottom of the hill is a small pale boy beside a lake whose name she’s forgotten. She reaches for his laugh, curls her lips around the shimmer of fish scales, and begins again.