little things for big places: His other heart was lost, back below, in another room, before these years—a now vanished object, the one thing he could not see, eyes shut or open. He attempted to draw it once, her figure, when the smell of her infection, sweet, damp and covered in cloth, had begun to keep most others away. When she’d began forgetting to ask him how she looked. He sketched her softness with thick black lines—her thin neck thinning and her face, cherub-like, slanted down near a heavy, feverish sleep. She said to him I just want to sleep and then she never said anything again. Please don’t sleep he’d responded, but she had already drifted elsewhere. He sketched it until he could no longer see it.