He reached for the tumbler of rye, his arm knocking into Fuller’s, which he realized had raised itself, tenderly, in order to caress his face. There was a softness, a sense of pathos and protection in Hawkins’ expression, that he had never seen. But the collision of their two arms caused Hawkins to withdraw the gesture and replace the look on his face with one of relief—the look of a man who was, upon further reflection, pleased not to have given away something he didn’t need to.

The lines of verse vanished onto the breeze racing down Ninth Avenue ahead of Tim, just as yesterday, in the apartment on Capitol Hill, his own whispering of the words “I love you,” barely but deliberately audible, had disappeared into the pillow and walls, unanswered except for two gentle pats on the back of his head.

Tim, not sure if he was being teased or protected, said nothing, while Mary Johnson pictured this boy opening a parcel with his small scrubbed fingers and getting blown to bits. His destruction was, she thought, going to occur in any case. She watched him watching Fuller, his face like a paper target on a firing range.