Reeling, Kierk stands, and, looking for something to do, begins to put the supplies away like an automaton. Mike has wandered over and is asking Leon something. A small voice breaks Kierk’s pinwheeling analysis of his own state. A black boy with cornrows and a mild malocclusion is looking up at him, Leon, and Mike.

“Hello, what’s your name?” Mike asks.

“Hi, I’m Ari.”

“Ari, what can we do ya for?”

“So why do you need the other part, unlike the . . .”

“Cerebellum,” Kierk says.

“Yeah, why can you lose that cerebellum but you can’t lose the . . .”

“Cerebrum.”

“Yeah.”

Mike, smiling down, snaps on a glove and holds one of the brains out for the boy to see more clearly. “Because you are your cerebrum. But you’re not your cerebellum, you can lose that. Like you can lose an arm.”

Kierk leans over the table, takes the brain from Mike and submerges it back into its Tupperware container before turning back around, taking off his gloves as he answers.

“No. Listen, Ari, it’s like houses and garages. You live in your house, not your garage. The cerebrum is the house in which your consciousness lives. But you’re not your house. You just live there.”

Mike looks over at Kierk questioningly. “Well, not exactly. I mean, listen, Ari, you are your brain. That’s why when parts of it get damaged you get damaged as well. That’s what all these stations have been showing you today.”

Ari looks from Kierk to Mike, Mike to Kierk. After a second of silence Kierk leans forward until he is nearly sprawled across the table, trying to make eye contact, almost pleading. “You are at least your brain. That is what you have learned here today. Just like a painting is at least paint. You see, Ari? You are at least your brain.”

“Kierk,” Mike says curtly. “Let’s stick with what is established.” From the heated interaction a bubble has formed around them and some of the nearby tables are looking over. The schoolteacher is still talking to her but Carmen is no longer paying attention.

“Established? When, Mike? Tell me when.”

“Kierk . . .”