Someone drops a glove on the pavement, and the next person along picks it up and sets it on top of a railing or a fence post, at about the height of a hand. They don’t carry it anywhere or tell anyone. They just lift it out of the way of feet and into the eyeline of whoever will come back along this street later, looking at the ground, trying to remember where they last had both. It is a letter with no address, written for the one reader who is retracing their steps. The finder walks on and never learns whether it was collected. People keep doing it anyway, which suggests the point was never quite the glove. It was deciding, for eight seconds, that a stranger’s bad afternoon was partly yours to fix.