Illinois. Land of the this & the that. Never been, though some of it does spill over into Indiana, my home—briefly. Like Abby, a friend in the purest sense. "We kneel before these machines," she said in a funny serious voice plucking phone from pocket. Then a video her mother shot of a tiny tornado strolling down a sycamore street. The thing looked harmless enough, only sometimes activating a car alarm or eviscerating a swooping warbler. (Abby once confessed to me that her boyfriend needed to wash himself always immediately after lovemaking.) The bouncy camera made me take a bridge for a lake, loneliness for dedication. I said that maybe Effingham High could adopt it as their mascot. "The Effingham Tiny Tornadoes," she said with unfounded nostalgia. I even whipped up a napkin sketch of Tim the Tiny Tornado with shades & gloves, sticks for legs. "If they do," said Abby, "I promise I'll get you a sweatshirt." She'd caught me. "I promise we'll go to a game."