The wind had reached inside the apartment space, blowing papers through the room and across the floor. A window had been left cracked open, and the combination of persistent wind and a few days of us being away had added up to a fair bit of mess.

We hadn’t left anything too vital behind, nothing too identifying on papers, no computers, nothing that would hurt if stolen. Some of the basics had been left behind, as had a lot of the detritus. Some were things like the snacks for when we patrolled or camped out in headquarters, loose papers and an assortment of tinker notes, Sveta drawings, and what seemed to be Chris’s notes for a game he was playing or designing. The whiteboards had been wiped down, but some had been wiped more meticulously than others, and traces of letters remained here and there. Sveta’s still had fragments of the individual pieces of art. Ashley’s hadn’t been wiped clean at all. ‘Swansong’ still stood out on it.

I bent down and picked up one sheet of paper, which looked remarkably like an instant message conversation—one line on the top left, a line just below it and aligned to the far right. The left column had a spiral drawn above it. The right a teardrop.

note to self: owe 45m and thank-you treat to
awesome brother

suck up

seriously what do you want? we time share a body and I
have no idea what sort of thing you like. think about it
and write something down when I pass control
$50 max. I have cash from work on construction block

dunno. clothes? clothes are expensive
something in my style

proposal: I get you two somethings not totally your
style but maybe broaden your horizons

I like my horizons where they are
hoodie / v.neck tee / straight-leg jeans
no big graphics. dark colors if any color at all
or don’t worry about it. if it’s a hassle
don’t sweat it

The conversation terminated there. No reply from Tristan. No indication if they’d found equilibrium or if the gift had been given.

The long plastic tables with the legs that folded down were still in place. I rolled up my sleeve, hesitated, and then undid my sling, ducking my head to get the strap over it and off. I wouldn’t do anything more strenuous than what I was doing in the physical therapy sessions.

Both sleeves rolled up, I began gathering papers. When repeatedly bending down got to be a pain, I used flight to dip and move along the length of the floor, gathering with one hand and holding them with the other.

Everything in order. There was a process, and I could follow steps and make things better. It was meditative, even. I didn’t mind that there were parts that were mind-numbing or dull.