For her birthday he built her a giant heart. He made it out of old car parts, rusted tin cans, barbwire, and stained glass. He made it ten-feet tall, eight-feet wide, painted it gypsy red. When the day came, he led her to it blindfolded, down the dirt path where daylilies grew and the skunk cabbage flowered. By then he’d added sticks and stones, old bones, and French doors opening out. There was a nesting box for bluebirds and a needle for sutures. When he took the blindfold off, she settled against his shoulder, little hammers of joy beating in her breast. “I gave it wings,” he said, “just like the real thing.” She walked slowly around it, removing faded strips of wallpaper. When she tugged the starter cord it chugged to life. “It runs on homeopathic doses of hope,” he said, pointing to a thimble as he knelt and handed her the keys.