“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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