The whole gig revolved around the fact that he could see, as a boy, that he had been born Ojibwa but hadn't been raised as if; the rupture in identity, as a result, had been huge.
Ideas came to her mind the way mail arrived in the mailbox.
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One humid summer night, after he had wrapped up a late-night painting session in the basement studio with her brother, he had spied her, the older sister, sleeping on the couch as he exited the bathroom on the main floor, thinking to himself in that unavoidable yet noncommittal pause that she looked like an angel from a Wim Wenders movie if the angels in Wenders' films had slept.
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