It’s morning and I’m in bed with the covers pulled high, waiting for the weathermen. There’s no set time but they always come. I lie and listen for the sound of paper scratching up dust.

The sound of the weather report slipped under the door. I try not to think too much about the day ahead before it arrives. The blinds are closed. I can walk from bed to door without looking out a window. Some mornings I tear the report open right there on the threshold, and, if it’s good, I’ll go out into the street. Sometimes I take it upstairs and open it solemnly at the kitchen table, or at the dresser like a love letter. Sometimes my partner, Alan, gets to it first.