One January day, while taking out the trash, Harp started slipping on ice and never stopped. One leg after the other, arms flapping, torso pitched at forty-five degrees. Their feet slapped the ground like Scooby-Doo and Shaggy running away. After a few minutes, Harp realized they might be stuck. With Felix’s help, they got back inside, where the slipping continued. “Maybe you’d better stay the night in the kitchen,” Felix said. And so it went, through winter and spring. Summer arrives, and the friction of Harp’s feet on hot ground smokes their shoes, burning through the soles until only calloused, bloody feet remain. A friend, Sarah, slips Nike sandals onto Harp’s feet, timed perfectly with each step. They sleep at the bed’s edge; when Harp and Felix share a bed, nobody sleeps. Harp must eat endlessly to fuel the motion. The endless movement calms some—cardinals, a certain cat, maybe even Harp—though the cat may just be after the birds. Harp’s therapist suggests the motion holds something from childhood. “Did your parents ever—” Harp stops listening but carries the question through almost-eternity, until the heat death of the universe. Who knows what comes after.