When she calls, as Derek knew she would, he can’t move either of his arms. Madrid, this old mining village turned little artist colony lounges within the wavy grooves of tan shaded conical hills splotched olive with sagebrush, and the entirety of the sun burrows into it. Feeling its burn coat the top of his head, Derek thinks maybe the heat will cue feeling back into his hands and wrists, so he keeps walking past the little shops and cafés and art galleries in tropical-colored houses. At one end of the village is a cerulean green jewelry store with its chalky gray door open. A black dog curled on the wooden floorboard lurches to its white-spotted paws and snuggles its nose into Derek’s palm. All he feels is vague shapeless pressure.

            “That’s Galisteo,” an old lady with strings of hair like faded hay smiles from behind a low glass counter. She’s as tall as Derek, but not as thin. “Me?” she says. “I’m Jeanette.”

            Wind chimes again vibrate from his pocket, and Galisteo shuffles his paws straight back. His one eye is fogged blue, and he points it at the old lady and whines.

            “It’s okay, sweet boy,” Jeanette says.

            Derek mutters an apology and steps out. He walks back through the village, watching drops of sweat plop the toes of his shoes. He stops in front of a small white clapboard house with bright coral-blue window frames, where a flurry of clinks and clacks dance through the open windows. A pottery studio, where someone oppressed by an emotion is using that weight to create something they can make sense out of. He turns away from it and keeps walking, past the Mine Shaft Tavern and its outdoor covered patio, behind which sits the Inn and the room with the loud abstract art on the wall and yellowed-stone fireplace and the odor of sulphur floating from the bathroom faucet and the enormous bed that sinks a cocooned divot in the middle and the faded bronze desk on which lies his opened Moleskine notebook and his blue pen, lying clicked across the empty page, where this morning he suddenly dropped it.

​            He walks until a hard bend in the slim paved road, wavy with heat, signals the other end of the village, and he sees a small dark clapboard house with a bright coral-red door, and through this open door drift the swift sloshy sounds of paints being mixed and slapped against canvas. Derek stands there, listening. He keeps standing there, as if standing there in the direct flow of their sound will stimulate in him the ability to create sense out of his own oppressing weight. He turns around. His spine is a slip n’ slide, the front and back of his legs oily. His head and his face burn a thick coating red. Still he can’t feel his hands or wrists. Wind chimes keep vibrating from his pocket.