I WANTED TO return to Montréal. Photograph the impractical spiral staircases clinging to narrow brick houses. Dance around drifts of cottonwood fluff, order coffee in French so terrible that the barista responds in English.
I wasn't going to Montréal. I was packing from the hospital-provided list, ignoring all recommendations except the button-down shirts. That's a solid tip, because once the electrodes are attached, you cannot pull a shirt over your head. Instead of the suggested jigsaw puzzle, I packed two books for each day I'd be hospitalized.
Cramming ten books into an overnight bag takes effort. I thought about Colin Craven in , traveling the world via books while on miserable bedrest. As a child I had loved that book, but when it was given to my own kids, I'd winced. Any book written at the height of the British Empire has its issues. Flipping through, I'd searched for Dickon and his robin, only to
