After five days (six) of solipsistish fog, there is sun! By Fog Day Four, I was checking the New York Times with more earnestness than usual—if fog had covered the globe, surely the NYT would cover it. If Nature had determined we would never see the sky again (oh, for even a cloudy sky), the NYT would say why. It would publish articles about how American scientists and the American government were working on a way to clear a little space, a little space to look up through and breathe to. But there was not a byline (just a local phenomenon, then). So, when I felt like a claustrophobic fat-man trapped in an elevator, I would think: I can always drive to Saskatchewan. I have freedom and control. But, horror, because of work obligations I can’t escape until Christmas. Anxiety thus entirely displaced my initial response of romantic wonder (we can run through the fog, disappear through the fog). I took a lot of naps.