Something had come to perplex William Stevenson.
Nothing much, as far as perplexing things go. Nothing quite so mystical as how the grub worm will read the story of a tree by boring into its trunk; chewing through the annual rings there, where, like a sort of Braille, are kept a tree’s greatest concerns: tales of drought and deep ice, of seedlings and cool, gray rains.
Nothing as unknowable as the depth of the Heavens. Of that, William was fairly certain. There was an answer. He just hadn’t discovered it yet.
William Stevenson’s eggs had begun to stick, you see. Stick to the pan.
Five days now, he had scrapped them from the floor of his iron skillet, something William could not remember ever having to do, something that frustrated him to no end, and William was not an easily frustrated person.
There was a way that William Stevenson liked to eat his eggs, and scrapped from the floor of a skillet was not, that, way.