M was born in Bad Axe, a small town in the joint of Michigan’s thumb, near Lake Huron. She left the day she graduated high school, wore clothes she barely fit into. Parts of her were always squirting out. Married the next year. Followed him east where she spent the winter snorting cocaine off a rented coffee table. When spring broke she stole the car and drove to Nashville. That year she bought a small tourist hotel on an island off South America. She came to Detroit in the off-season. To make hard currency or have a baby. She kept a job with a hedge fund millionaire who watched her swim in his heated pool. I met her at this point in the story, her mouth all stretched and confused by other languages. I have no idea how she found the spoons of applesauce to put in her mouth. Living was an art she made that broke my nerves. She found her way into my spare room for three months. During the evenings she wrote to Brazil, long letters explaining snow.