Penn’s good chair has not moved. Penn has, inwardly.

You tell the oxbow-walk: straight on paper, loop on feet. Nursery in the reeds. You tell the blank as a choice, the needle as a cousin, the catalog as a stock-rule in story-clothes.

Penn’s eyes go bright. “We protected what we loved by calling it findable. I’m not ashamed. Findable is a fence that doesn’t need a lock if people remember why it was built.”

“Some people remember with tally sticks,” you say.

“Then give them both,” Penn says. “A myth that can survive a muddy sketch is a better myth.”

The Atlas ticks on its pedestal—the little sound of ink deciding. Time to choose the size of the audience.