I wake each morning in a panic that I’m back in Wheaton, and am coaxed to reality by the itch of carpet, the smell of smoke from the burning city, and the sparkle of sunlight on my vast foil model. My project now fills half the restaurant, extending from the south windows to the stairwell door. Within the cityscape, I’ve begun constructing vignettes using a larger scale, scenes placed under a magnifier. I rendered the souvenir factory inside which laborers were forced, on threat of imprisonment or of having their children taken as wards of the state, to work fourteen-hour days, using hot-glue guns to affix tiny seashells to velvet-lined jewelry boxes. I rendered the brothels where tourists paid third-world rates for sex with the young locals, and slightly higher rates for sex with minors—a practice vehemently denied by city officials, but corroborated by multiple undercover investigations. I have planned models of the Grand Casino and the drug bazaar and the complex subterranean network of T-shirt sweatshops.