I have a bed for the first time in ten months. Now I need kisses, umbrellas, and plants in their pots. A little wheelbarrow, licorice, and a lock of gray hair. A Newfoundland, some pencil shavings, and a game of Red Rover. Knit pants, a baby-blue tie, and a week of tomorrows. I need an ostrich egg, a toy submarine, and a recycled legal pad. I need you, and me, and baby makes three. And also four—that poor Eleanor. But buy you one thing, then others you need—and all that you need, you can buy with a dime. I mean five. I mean one thousand times nine.