Thinks of Moore on his back. Breath on the side of his face. The man lets him go with a shove and Xie stumbles, back against the truck. The man spits, turns. You watch yourself, hear. Inside the building the men are unrolling a tarp, perfectly visible through the windows. Xie gets a bandage from the glove compartment, spreads it over the burst blister. When he walks back into the building the men clear their throats. In the bathroom Erik is twisting the new taps into place. What took you so long. Gesturing at the gloves. Xie pulls them on, picks up the little bits of junk everywhere: shredded plastic, splinters of wood, loose nails, paint chips. One by one into an empty paint can. When the can is full Xie puts it in the back of the truck, then climbs into the cab. Peels off the sweaty gloves. Sleeps. When he wakes he sees Erik crossing the lot, blotting the sweat from his brow as he gets inside the truck. How’s your hand? It’s okay. Erik nods, long suck of his teeth. You want to go back in? No, Xie says. Silence. A sparrow lands on the hood of the truck, shivers, flies off. You know I just want things to work, Erik says. Here, I mean. For you. That’s all. Xie gazes from blacktop to roof to sky. I know, Xie says. Erik rubs his face. They used to laugh about how Xie’s first word was No. For a year no matter what anyone said Xie would yell, No no no. If something scared Xie—the noise from the clock or the car engine or the air conditioner—Erik wanted to show Xie how it worked. Kneeling beside him, saying, Look. Trying to prove there was no monster lurking in the machines. But Xie refused to look. Bad, he said about the air conditioner. Bad the car engine, bad the clock. Erik insisting, We have to learn to live with these things. Tick tock. Rumble. Roar. No.