It is February, and it is cold. The snow has melted, and re-frozen, and been snowed on afresh, and the new snow in turn has melted, re-frozen and been snowed on afresh, the city is a glacial lettuce, a lattice of layers. Morgan perches on the third branch of her favourite tree. From here she can smell the ice without the dull nasal glare of pollution.

Through the second floor window of a nearby apartment there is a large television set, clearly visible from this height. The family who own it are not affluent, simply the sort who value pixels over pages, and, luckily, privacy. It is too far for Morgan to hear the sounds from the screen, but the picture is clear. She settles down with her bag of hot candied peanuts, and makes up the words.