a tiny shoe decorated with seashells from Wellfleet Bay, and when I looked more closely, I saw the shells made the first letter of Isaac’s name, I, and then the same I written with stones on the sand of the beach. The tide had come in and the I was slipping into the sea; another I drawn with a stick on the sand slopes of Marconi Beach, a single vowel that was being pecked at by a gull, as if it sensed a worm lurked under the sand on which the I was written. Jennifer Moreau gestured to the walls. ‘It’s not about you. It’s about me.’
