by Sara Solberg Jacob Granneman Icarus is a scrappy sort, so when he wakes up after the crash, swollen eyes blinking slow and owlish against the hospital’s harsh fluorescent light, the first thing he tells you is that he wants to buy a candle that smells like space. Space is red-hot metal and spent gasoline, he says, and as he wakes up more, those swollen eyes pool with wonder. Space is the ringing silence left in a shot bullet’s wake. Space lingers like an auto shop lingers