There’s a knock at the door. It’s still dark. I’m wearing my clothes from yesterday, now the only clothes I own. There’s dirt from the floor on the back of my shoulders and arms. I pull the one sweatshirt I have out of my bag and put it on over my top. I answer the door. It’s Ben.

“Heyyy, hellooo,” he says, as though he is speaking for me as well as for himself. He is smiling. His lips are very pink. “So, I got you this!”

Ben’s eyes scan the room. I suppose it’s probably strange that none of my stuff is here, after I told him I would be moving all of my things yesterday. He looks into my face and smiles. Then he hands me a plant with brown and pink stems and soft-looking dark red leaves.

“Oh!” I say.

“You’ve got a hook, see?” He points at a metal hook about the size of my hand coming out of the ceiling.

“Huh.” I hadn’t spotted it before. It’s painted white like the ceiling, so it blends in. I look up at it. I wonder what it was for.

“I got you this as, like, a sort of ‘Hello! Welcome!’ kind of gift, to lighten up the room a bit . . .” The door closes behind him, plunging the room into complete darkness. “You still got a headache?”

“No.” I go to the switch and turn the lights up a little. “I’m photosensitive. It’s just a thing I have.” I gesture at my face, trying to think of something to say. “With my eyes.”

I look down at the plant in my hands. It’s quite pretty. Long stems with small leaves cascade out of the pot and hang down like hair. “Won’t this die?” I ask. “There’s no window.”

“Oh, so yeah . . . basically, it’s fake.” Ben laughs to himself. “Shall I—” he says, and he points up at the hook. In that moment, he looks like a da Vinci portrait: his plump, white face, his soft-looking ginger hair, his gentle-looking eyes. In da Vinci’s portraits of people pointing to heaven, his models, no matter their age, always look almost cherub-like. Ben stays pointing for a while, and then the illusion is broken.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.

Ben grins, and his eyes turn into little slits with crow’s-feet on either side that haven’t yet become permanent folds in his face; I can tell they will, though. Over several years, Ben’s skin will form wrinkles that will act like physical reminders of his personality and nature. Meanwhile, I’ll remain looking the same; my face will give no clue to the kind of person I am. “That man looks kind,” people will say when they see Ben’s face when he is old. When the same people see me, they’ll say nothing.