Late afternoon, we draw the curtains. On the eighteen-inch portable in the corner talking heads are talked out, red-eyed, perhaps relieved when we turn the volume down. The house exhales. You sleep in your car seat, on the floor of a near-empty room you will soon fill. Fifty-one days in the world, every one counted, your fists still pegged to your ears, as if to block out frequencies we no longer hear. You have surpassed all our imaginings; no miracle can wrong-foot us now. I hold my breath as I approach. Above you, in the mid-air of green-screen a portion of the island hovers, other-worldly. Your breath is even, you have not moved though all about you has.