Every time she comes home, enters her childhood room, she opens the box stored in the bottom draw. Shuffles and reshuffles the collection of unsent postcards, full of joy and resolve. On a bench in a London railway station, looking up through the kaleidoscope-like glass dome, she dreamt of her media naranja. Before dawn in the Yucatán, the curandero ran an egg over her skin to cleanse her aura, then put the egg in water to read. Told stories of the riddled hillside behind her. At Nazca, where the dry, windless plateau preserves the hummingbird and shark, she could see far into the distance, and became disoriented by the vast numbers and disembodied voices. Sometimes she feels these are the scenes at which parts of herself split off and moved in different directions, left with and left behind. She places the postcards back in the hand-bound box that warps like a personality. Waits for the low tide, before walking out along the estuary to watch a leaf unfurl, its slow trembling, easy performance.