You’re so tiny, I say to Daisy. Tiny, tiny, tiny! The repetition is meant to reveal Daisy’s surprisingly small size. We crawl along floorboards and under the table. We count the number of chair legs around us – sixteen of them! (What sort of grotesque furniture is this?) We huddle into a time created by the table. We observe the orbits of lamps and picture frames. They are our moons and constellations. You know, says Daisy, I am not really so very small. She keeps herself flat at the entrance to the cave. From out there, she says, our home is a hollow in a surface which is no bigger than the nail of my paw. And so, I exclaim, you must be even smaller! And so, she corrects me, I must be larger than the entire universe.