Norman has lived alone for a year.
Each day he visits the Thin Man, who always sits at the same stand, grinning, stretching too little skin over his hatchet face. When Norman comes the Thin Man is ready with a glass jelly jar of storm clouds, angry and roiling.
Sometimes, Norman asks about the other jars, the jars of warm light softly beating on the highest shelf. The Thin Man always laughs. “You’ll wake up alone either way.”
For a year, Norman has walked home every day with his jar of squalls, to wallow in the unfinished nursery, avoiding the bedroom.