Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing from my dorm room in blustery Massachusetts. Thumbnail-sized town, it was a big deal last spring when a Shake Shack finally opened. I started eating meat again last month, and I'm slowly working my way through the menu: skip the milkshakes; add avocado to the ShackBurger. This winter is worse than the last—I keep forgetting that climate change works in two directions at the same time, alternating blasts of cold and hot air. I walked on top of the frozen-over lake yesterday, not because I trusted it was solid and reliable enough to hold my weight, but because I thought there was a chance it might break. The ice was patchy in places like unevenly blown glass. Until this weekend, my friend believed that a leap year was when February has 28 days and that usually it has 30. We were all very grateful that it is, in fact, not a leap year. None of us can stand another day of winter. I just learned that leap years occur because each day, we're being stiffed of three minutes and 56 seconds. The 366th day, we spend all our accrued time savings in one go. I think I'd prefer a slower trickle: an hour here, an hour there. Let the hot heart of summer beat a little longer.

Stay warm,

Nora