We hunt for something to haunt. Down corridors and through a fire exit promising ALARM WILL SOUND that makes no sound at all. Outside, it’s all rocks and low to the ground plants, like a tundra. The sky is a bed of red needles. There is nothing out here but an old red telephone booth with the phonebook torn out. A thin rusted chain dangling from a broken link to the right of the coin slot. When you rattle the box, coins fall out. It’s perfect you say. It’s home. I look out the glass for miles. I can see the edge of the earth, where it’s pinched up like a pie crust.