5AM wakeup. From upstairs come the cries of my daughter, who’s fallen ill during the early morning hours. We have a minor flood in the house because of a clogged toilet, backed-up laundry to the ceiling, two car inspections due, federal income taxes to start, husband out of town for work. Oh, and a jury summons came in the mail yesterday. And then sometimes, fate says “this bitch seems bored” and throws me for a real loop. Somewhere in the middle of this, I’m supposed to be finishing a book.

Picture this. A little girl, no older than four, playing alone in her room. With the precision of a stage director, she constructs the scene for her imaginary play. The main character is a Barbie doll with chewed-up feet and hair that has never known peace. Dressed in rags, Barbie is made to trudge up a mountainside (performed by a pile of blankets) in a raging blizzard (performed by a plug-in fan, turned on its maximum setting and positioned about 6 inches from Barbie’s face).