Francine learns to breathe herself into flying. Though it only lasts a minute, she writes, I can imagine the dead feel something. Francine denies the length of her arms and fence posts. Though the wheat is not a wave, I can see the Sea of Mercy. Francine learns to plow fields in her dreams. Though my body eats dirt, she writes, I’m not a body. Or his. Francine learns the length of her arms in segments. Like a sunset, she writes, or the mountain of Saint Gabriel. I live in an attic. I breathe without thinking. But when I do, she writes, I’m with him. Francine learns to believe anything but dying.