INVENTORY OF HINGE POINTS (Friday, exact date withheld) 1 pest inspector, standing in the garage at 6:40 a.m., tapping the skirting board with a screwdriver while I hold the torch and pretend to understand 1 child's backpack, frog-shaped, abandoned on the kindy mat like a shed skin 1 Holden on a hoist, undercarriage exposed, the mechanic pointing at rust the way a doctor points at a scan 1 door at 2 p.m. that I have been asked not to describe 1 fridge, opened at 11:47 p.m., humming its one note into the kitchen dark 1 bag of Doritos (Cheese Supreme), eaten standing, no plate, no regret, crumbs falling into the cone of fridge-light like orange snow 1 man, mid-stride between all of these, who mistook movement for progress and was corrected by the map — All paths curve back through the same body. — The body is the hinge, not the door.