I unwind my mind. Trim flaps of superfluous scraps like fat from muscle, bleed the crevasses dry and pan the glimmering nougat dry creek river bed underneath. Use a sieve and a hounds-tooth comb. Press the crumbs into some discernible shape and leave them to dry, to age, to ferment under a harsh light. When the cracks show up, I squeeze them tight again. Time travel and it’s thirteen years ago, early Spring 2010: I am 24, living in Mammoth Lakes, CA. It’s one of those days where two plus two equals three. I cycle to work, into the wind. As a side-note, it doesn’t matter where you’re going; it’s always into the wind in the mountains. Mountain folks like it rough: tents, no WiFi and cycling into the wind. So I cycle into the wind. It’s a Saturday, which is my Monday, and I’m on Minis. This mean nothing to you, but to me it means nine crying 4 year-olds. Come on Jill, I hear you say, they can’t all be crying. Well, you’re right of course, only 8 of them are crying (it all began with one, crying is contagious with four year olds). The ninth is whizzing happily down the little kids carpet, wedging, turning around cones, all but cartwheeling down the slope.