Foghorns in the estuary. Going to bed early with a book. The alarm wakes me more than nine hours later, and I shut the thing off. The second alarm, on my wrist, goes off forty-five minutes later, and I weakly slap at the thing until it stops shaking my bones. There’s no light. Cold seeps into this eighty-five-year-old house no matter what. Hibernation mode. The chill damp is starting to get into my muscles. Somehow, I always forget this part of winter, the months when I’m in pain all the time and my hands stop working. I’m so delighted by the turn of the season that I forget that it eventually starts to kill me. On reflection, I could draw up a very long list of things I experience in the same way.