Three-year-old Jersey Lem leaned forward and rested his chin on his tan, plump forearms, which bridged the handlebars of his tricycle. There was an invisible force field that ran between the last square of concrete sidewalk and the driveway of the house next door. The front wheel of his low-slung plastic trike was turned sideways and respectfully nudged right up to, but not touching, the force field. Lounging in his saddle, Jersey Lem was regarding gravely the awesome power of his mother; it was her job to recharge the force field. His bare foot rested on the warm sidewalk, and he felt as if the concrete radiated his mother’s warmth. It was connected to her by the walkway to the front step, and through the wood flooring beneath the forest of books and papers that grew around her. She was inside now, carefully plucking fruits from those trees and harvesting their leaves. The floor was littered with the humus of their discarded pages.