We’re on display, one of those museum boxes with a catchy title: The Way They Fly Into Themselves or Chasm: A Study in Air, Walnut and Whiskey. Here are the details: the executive’s diminutive shoes, his frizzy hair. Also the posture I’ve adopted— half raccoon, half movie star. Postcards spew from my chest begging miss me, miss me! There’s no way we’ll die up here. Too expected, pedantic. Pretty soon, the descent, like sex talk that sounds like mewling. Negligible as a pretzel. Below, the corn is tall. The kid who totes our bags thinks we’re assholes, and we are.