“Tell me if this hurts.”
He nodded.
I lowered his bare left foot until the sole met the damp grass.
Noah inhaled sharply.
His toes curled.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his eye closed.
“That good?”
“Yes.”
His answer came like a prayer.
I sat on the low stone border beside the chair.
He moved his foot through the grass, feeling the blades against his skin.
“Everything inside is plastic,” he said.
“Mostly.”
“Even the air.”
“I don’t think the air is plastic.”
“Feels like it.”
We sat without speaking.
A gull cried somewhere above the roof.
Cars passed beyond the courtyard wall.
The world smelled of rain and cedar.
Noah tipped his face toward the muted sky.
“I forgot weather.”
“You experienced it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He remained still, eyes closed.
After a while, he spoke.
“They talked about discharge.”
I straightened.
