I influenced events very little. Unlike in literature, character was not fate. Fate was unbelievably itself. Staring out from the unlikely present I found each possible future equally implausible, though one of them began to take shape along the Canada-U.S. border where, under a concealing canopy of maples, I rented a house in a woods. I lived off a small sum Dominic advanced to me from his will. In early November came the days of first snow. The place had a busted furnace and a woodstove. I burned firewood and sawed and chopped to replenish the pile, a daily routine in my unpeopled life. In the mornings and late afternoons I handwrote stories I found hard to believe, including the one you’re now reading. To protect the vulnerable, I changed details and names, including my own. Amanda is not Amanda, Durant not Durant, the poem “August” not “August,” and so on. These measures are acts of delusion or faith in the idea that an audience awaits and some reader somewhere will see what’s true.
