Our new house is on the outskirts of the city: our apples are small apartment windows lighting up the country trees. Silence walks over our roof. At night, my husband works peacefully in the garage. I feed our new baby, counting his harried breaths by the sounds of the hammer on the wall. My husband sends a message: hope baby feeds better tonight. Do you want self-opening curtains? I bundle up the baby to watch him connecting wires, carefully, like origami, in the trees outside the kitchen. Did you know, he says in bed, when we’re on holiday, we can turn on the lights and television as if we’re in it but we’ll actually be somewhere else.