golden-apple apple tree, and first you have to slip inside the trunk—you can get there easily on a slide. (I say this now, but you’ll never find it, it’s not easy to pick out the tree, don’t think I’d give you the address just like that.) Actually, some branches poke in through the walls but I like how it feels like a grotto. I set up a straw bed for myself, like the ones for the animals. I really like to imagine being an animal, like a kangaroo or a polar bear, for example. Often I’m a polar bear fleeing the war against the Germans. I know I have to hide to save my skin because I’m a white bear who’s ultra easy to spot. There’s no white anywhere in my house. White is my dad’s color—the color of his skin, which isn’t the same as his mother’s and his sister’s. My cousin has brown skin and as for me, I’m white. It’s a shame, but you have to be happy with what you have—that’s what my dad says. Some people aren’t so lucky—he says this, too. It makes me sad to think that there are some people who don’t have skin at all. So, yes, I’m happy to have some, at least. All my dad’s walls are white and it’s really sad, really. But I think my dad is sad, and this is something I don’t talk about. I say it only in my house so he won’t hear it. In my own house the walls are all different colors.