“I can feel my heart beating,” he says.

He takes my hand and puts it on his bare chest. His skin is hairless and soft. I can feel he’s perspiring, just a bit.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say.

I feel my own heat, my own heart beating, the way Hilbert’s is.

“Would you mind standing?” I ask.

He does, and for a moment we just look at each other. We take each other in. His skin is wrinkled and droops. An old man’s imperfect torso. Years on display in that sagging skin: quiet moments of pride and shame, excitement and fear, joy, guilt, desire, happiness, loss, love. I can see it. All of it and more. Just like my own.

We don’t say anything else as I continue my work.

I can’t say for how long he stands there like that, shoulders straight, hands at his side, shirt off. His eyes fixed on the floor, or out the window. Certain moments he looks deep in thought, at others he cracks a smile for no apparent reason. It’s impressive that he can stand for so long. It must be an hour. Maybe more.

At one point he says to me: “7 ÷ ⅔ = 7 x 3/2. If dividing by a fraction, you can reverse the fraction and multiply.”

I ask if he’s tired, if he’s cold, if he wants a break. Each time, he says no. He says I should just keep going.

I do. I keep painting, losing myself in the work. I’ve been adding details to his chin and lips until I feel a shift in the room. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s unmistakable—the feeling that someone else is here with us. Another presence.

“We should take a break,” I say.

I slip my cardigan over my shoulders and help Hilbert with his shirt.

“What’s that?” I ask, noticing something, a bump, on the back of his neck.

I reach across his shoulder to touch it with my finger. What is it? A mole? A pimple? It looks like some kind of strange growth, like a cluster of tiny mushrooms. He flinches when I touch it.

Shelley walks in without knocking. She looks at us, standing together, Hilbert’s shirt half-unbuttoned, my hand on his neck. I have an urge to hide my brush, the paint. I want to cover the portrait. This was supposed to be our secret. From her. From the others.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks Hilbert. “I’ve been looking for him. It’s time for his nap.”

“Already? What time is it?”

She ignores me.

“Come on, Hilbert. Let’s go.”

“But he has some marks,” I say. “On his neck. Raised bumps.”

This stops her in her tracks.

“Marks?” she says.

“Yes, they look sore.”

Hilbert reaches up and touches the spot on his neck.

“That’s enough now, Penny. Don’t upset Hilbert.”

“I’m not upsetting him.”

“Yes, you are. You have an overactive imagination, which is good for your work, but I don’t want that to get the better of you.”