Daisy walked past me in the kitchen carrying an old rag she has had since she was a puppy. She put the rag in her bed and trotted off. Now, all day long, I have looked at the rag. I have studied the way its corner protrudes from the top of the bed. I have counted its folds. I have observed the way the light has moved across it, casting deep shadows. Sometimes Daisy has walked past, eyeing me suspiciously. I have resisted calling out to her for the answer. In any case, I know that if I did that, she would not oblige. What does it say? I might ask her. You should know by now, she replies, it doesn’t say anything.