I stare at the icemaker in the freezer and despite speaking gently and kindly to it, no cubes have been forthcoming. I know, I know. I should read the stack of materials left by the apartment manager—info sheets that tell me how to turn things off and on and how to adjust this and that. I’ve got a reason for putting off that mountain of paperwork: lots of writing gigs are flowing in and having spent a week writing checks, stocking my bank account over my ice cube bucket takes priority. I bought a bag of ice. My bad.