It was a story of a giant and a little girl. They were sitting on a bed. He, leaned upon the hills of books, was trying to fit into a space as small as possible. He wanted to fit on her lap, to nestle his heavy head up against a thumping tiny heart without breaching it. (Didn't he know it wasn't possible?) And she, who has fit her entire life on his pillow, was calmly looking at the tangle of anguish and could not distinguish the blue of his eyes from the blue outside, on the other side of the foul window. They didn't feel the fatal peril. But giants don't sleep in the pits of the stomachs of little girls. They don't.