The book, or what I had imagined it, was to be in part an autobiography of a rag doll that belonged to a little girl whose suffragette mother had been taken away to prison, and in part about the most impossible reader of the autobiography, a teenage girl living in the age of Snapchat and Instagram. You could still write it, like your friend could play to the empty room. No reason to write it ever again, I thought, if I had put it off year after year as though there were infinite time. I thought you always prided yourself as a non-procrastinator, he said.
