Mostly coiled like a morally-compromised copperhead who seems to be debating the instinct to strike, but more like a garden hose knotted just enough to reduce the pressure so that when something happens to it, the slightest of touches, the simplest of thoughts in the wrong direction even, the whole coiled mass comes alive in an explosion of cold water over everything and everything else.
“In this world, the most remarkable things are the little things, the heart in your chest, the books on your shelf,” my neighbors explain, “and when a neighbor doesn’t return a borrowed book, and you can’t buy a replacement, you may just have to buy another book instead. Maybe you’ll loan out that book out in the future, along with countless others, and you should hold out hope that you’ll get back some of them. But sometimes, with the precious things, just tucking them away in a freezer is enough to avoid loaning out things you someday want returned.”
I was able to stand the cold water for far longer than my neighbors, but I think most of my neighborhood has forgotten cold water exists at all.