You leave a few beads because a few beads cannot matter.

They matter the way tiny vents matter: they add up, they pick a tray, they fake a hose. Oskar sighs through his nose and wipes them anyway, which is a kindness you should not rely on.

“Last meter,” he says. “You can still say the list. Saying it is not a demotion.”

GROVE reprints the list, annoying, kind.

You pick up the grease pencil. The plastic sheet is still there. Squares are still promises.

Turn to 38.