Accounts of comics often treat the panel as the medium's basic unit. On this view, a page is chiefly a tray holding separate images, and readers construct movement by mentally supplying what occurs in the blank gutters between them. This account explains much: a hand raised in one panel and lowered in the next can imply an action never pictured. It also explains why isolated panels can remain recognizable when quoted elsewhere: line, character, and caption travel with them. But portability does not establish explanatory priority, since many effects emerge only when a panel occupies a particular place among others. Yet it understates the page's role. A cartoonist can make panels interact not only in sequence but also across the page. A large panel may delay the eye's arrival at a small one; repeated shapes in distant corners may invite comparison; a revelation at the bottom can alter the meaning of an image still visible at the top. The page is therefore not merely where panels are stored. Its simultaneous field is one of the resources by which comics organize time and emphasis. Some critics infer that vertically scrolling digital comics must consequently be aesthetically impoverished. Because a phone screen reveals only a narrow segment at once, they argue, it eliminates the page-wide relations essential to the form. But this inference confuses one arrangement of relations with the capacity to arrange relations at all. A scrolling comic can regulate the distance between images, make an expanse of blank screen produce suspense, or cause a new image to enter while part of an earlier one remains visible. It exchanges page-wide simultaneity for controlled appearance and disappearance. The relevant contrast is thus not between spatial design and its absence, but between different kinds of spatial design. This does not mean that any printed comic can migrate to a screen without loss. A work whose joke depends on a reader seeing two remote panels together will be damaged if those panels cannot share the screen. Nor can a printed page simply imitate every effect of scrolling: turning paper does not reproduce the measured, potentially continuous interval through which a digital reader moves. Adaptation succeeds when it identifies which relations perform indispensable work and rebuilds them using the destination format's resources. Merely slicing a page into screen-sized pieces preserves the drawings while often destroying their syntax. This relational account also clarifies why debates about whether digital comics are 'really comics' are unproductive. No single physical container defines the medium. What matters is a disciplined coordination of bounded images, verbal elements, and intervals that makes their relations intelligible. Print and scrolling formats furnish different tools for that coordination, and neither is neutral. To acknowledge their differences is not to rank them. It is to recognize that in comics, as in architecture, changing the arrangement can change the work even when every visible component remains present.