however tightly or loosely she bound him in the broad, cotton swathes, Owen complained. “IT’S TOO TIGHT, I CAN’T BREATHE!” he would say, coughing. Or else he would cry out, “I FEEL A DRAFT!” Barb Wiggin worked over him with such a grim, humorless sense of purpose that you would have thought she was embalming him; perhaps that’s what she thought of as she swaddled him—to calm herself.
