We are on the telephone, each one of us holding one close to an ear. The wind is rushing, I can hear you breathing, I think you must be outside. I imagine you standing there, in the snow, without mittens, a cell pushed tight to your head.
"I'm shrapling," you say again, and I know you are getting frustrated, I know you are losing patience. We have been shouting down the phone like this for days now.
"I still can't hear you," my voice is straining, I can hear the wind, it is rushing on my end, too, and I want to understand you, I want to know what's going on. "Please tell me what you mean."
Please. Please. Please.