The name “Reena Spaulings” feels husky, with a hint of a dire edge. Notably, perfectly generic in a world of improbably literary-sounding characters, it likely lodged in readers’ consciousness on first exposure, like ambient and spiky plane-tree pollen in one’s throat. The name somehow conveys plausibility and a tell, even before one is versed in the nexus of influence and implication it spins.

The fig sign can also be made to deny a request, as a mode of saying no—it’s a silent gesture of freedom, or modest rebellion. But there is something in it that connects the Greek and the Italian versions of the object and its name, for indeed it resembles the female genitalia (make the gesture while reading these words if you want a female body to appear in your hand).