What do you do with the ten minutes after bad news gets delayed?

That extra half-hour, my hands look for something to hold — a chisel, a block of scrap. The head goes quiet, like waiting for the grain to tell you which way to cut. It always lands, one way or another.

I reshelve the same books twice, even though they're already in order. It's the only way to keep the next half-hour from opening up into a lifetime.