Thousand: Six Hundred Seventeen

swirly sort of Hollywood fog that boils and rolls out tendrils and creeps around your feet, but the other fog, the kind you don’t see up close, that you see only when you look into the distance and there’s no distance to see, everything more than a gentle stone’s throw away hiding or removed. The girl pulls something else out of her jacket. A little glossary. She looks up the word “fog.” “Avoid entering,” the book says. Under “box” she finds, “A container for things you don’t want to see.” Under “room” the book says, “The space without which there