Dear John, I hope you don’t mind me rummaging through the jumble drawer again. I am taking the gold car with the black ski racks. I need it to get where I am going, though I don’t know where that is. I searched for a map to go with the car and under a pile of silver butter knives found a tiny atlas called The Atlas to Everywhere. I have never heard of the countries on its pages. Perhaps you disappeared into one of them years ago. Which is why I’m standing in your bedroom with its flowered wallpaper and painting of two horses. I find it hard to believe that Somewhere shares a border with Nowhere and that there is an entire unexplored continent with no name at all.