There is a tiny man named Richard who I keep in my matchbooks. For work, he pries off a match—like a man pulling back on a very long lever—whenever I need one and passes it to me. I reward him with spoonfuls of booze and Nerds candies: little sugar nuggets. Richard doesn’t look well, but he’s so hard to see I’m not sure. He’s also got a free place to sleep, courtesy of the empty matchbooks, which I arrange on my couch like campground tents. I’m a lifelong chain smoker, so there will never be a shortage of tents for him. Of the two of us, I predict Richard will be the first to go—but I wouldn’t put any money on it. In the meantime, I plan to do the best I can and provide him with food and lodging. Some matchbooks have ads printed on them—usually slogans—which I’m using to teach him to read. His first words were, GOOD USED CARS. Yesterday he said, PIANO SALES.