In eleventh grade, my English teacher, mustached, thin-lipped Mr. Leneweaver, informed the class in a tone I associated with military dads admonishing their kids to steer clear of "the stuff", that everything about the world is recorded somewhere. He cited several examples, and then said, "Take a look at your chairs. The exact number of bolts used to hold it together is written down somewhere." He glared at our silent faces, chin lifted, as if daring someone, anyone, to challenge him. Thirty-five years later, I often think of him while on the subway, wondering how many bolts hold it together.