![]() I snap into awareness, to a muted chorus of giggles. “Alex,” I say, and then, a short scream: “Alex!” ![]() ![]() A hysterical feeling is building inside me, a shrieking voice saying wrong, wrong, wrong, and I sit up and place my hand on Alex’s chest, as cold as ice. “Look at me,” I say, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move at all. He is staring at the leaves without blinking. “I’m cold,” he parrots, from lips that barely move. I try to move into the space between his arm and his chest but his body is rigid, unyielding. “Give me your arm,” I say, but Alex doesn’t respond. My breath comes in clouds, and I press against him, trying to stay warm. And again I realize he’s right: It is snowing, thick flakes the color of ash swirling all around us. We are staring at the web of leaves above us, thick as a wall. ![]() There’s a basket at the foot of the blanket, filled with half-rotten fruit, swarmed by tiny black ants. “It probably wasn’t the best day for a picnic,” Alex says, and just then I realize that yes, of course, we haven’t eaten any of the food we brought. ![]() The leaves are almost black, knitted so tightly together they blot out the sky. The trees look larger and darker than usual. Alex and I are lying together on a blanket in the backyard of 37 Brooks. ![]()
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