Ms. Solano’s scrapbook smells like dry paper and fir.

The pages are two columns, whether she meant it or not. Left: Tommyknockers. Ice-people on the tarn. The Claim-Walker. Someone in the Walls. Right, in a smaller, kinder hand: echo / cryoseism / singing ice / hare prints / porcupine chew / flue vowel / sealed air.

Stories are maps of feelings. The right column is a map of weather and animals. You need both if you want to be a person who is not rude to old miners and not foolish with a padlock.

Miners needed warnings. Knocking did sometimes mean unstable ground—so a little spirit who knocks to save you is a story that keeps people listening. You can respect the listening. You can update the cause.

Ellis makes a noise like a laugh that got stuck in a scarf. “If we copy both, I still get to like the left.”

“That’s the deal,” you say.

The stove-table would like this layout. The tarn would like you with facts on, while the ice is still showing off.

You copy until your pencil shines. Left column keeps its dignity. Right column gets your night. Solano’s tea-stain, if there is one, looks like a tarn. You do not say omen. You say paper.