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“Mountains,” Dell tells himself one morning, and goes dumpster-diving for hours. When he came back he takes hammer and chisel and knocks the corners off all his finds, then builds Teresopolis out of their angles: porcelain, steel, pasteboard and chrome. He’s careless at some point, and tears his hand on an edge. Sharp as a memory. Dell licks the wound clean.

He found something of his own, today: a broken tape deck, ancient consignment to Goodwill, with his name in Sharpie inside the battery case. It gives him faith. Everything comes back to you, he’s certain, if you look long enough.