Saturday, August 9, 1997
Dear Nova,
I’m writing from the middle of the woods on a porch that wraps around the circumference of what can only be described as an adult-sized tree house. Its main structure is a humble but beautiful cabin on an elevated platform like an exaggerated beach bungalow on stilts, and the entrance is about fourteen feet off the ground. Two flights of stairs lead to a screened porch that seems to float over the forest below. I’m surrounded by trees, and New York City is three hours over my shoulder. It’s afternoon now, and believe it or not, I’m with Asher.
He’s diligently whittling away at a piece of wood several feet to my left as I write. You can hide your most secret thoughts in plain sight with a journal. It feels so risky to write like this in Asher’s presenc
