You walk into the shop, shaved head, downturned mouth and ask for Chanukah candles. The small ones are cheap and colourful but last only a couple of hours, so the thick, twisted choice suits. You need to concentrate, you lean your umbrella against the shelves. As you decide, I see you twist the skin on your wrist as far as it will go, maybe to make sure you do still have skin, that it reacts when touched and that it responds to pressure. When you release your grip, a scarlet depression remains, and you seem elated. Today, it’s raining again.