A finger off is small in a hand and large in a church.

Rowan does not smash. Smashing is how you get two problems. “Tap. Ease. Mortar is still a bed, not a brick. We adjust like polite people. If someone jams a chip in to fake the width, the chip will split and we will all learn a proverb.”

The wind, leftover from the night, makes the centering creak in a language you now speak.

Kit whispers, “Wedge it with a leftover,” because leftovers want to be heroes.

Your burned palm, if you have one, throbs in time with the taps.

A finger is the width of a lad’s fear. Tapping walks stone on a bed that is still plastic. A chip jammed in is a story: it looks like fit and is a split waiting. Rowan would rather look slow in front of Odo than clever in front of a crack.