He placed it in my hand. His gaze was a precipice. Then my eyes climbed farther on. The taut line sang its one note. The clouds turned the trees, a black spiraling. The starlings, shrill, scattered within me. Nothing - not even my towering bright blue speck - could keep from moving. I felt the give the string biting its red ring around my finger. Head craning back, I understood: he expects me to hold up the sky. With one hand. His hand envelopes my right shoulder, the thumb idly stroking the bow of my nape again, again. Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am?