This is autumn? Right? Edward asked. Summer went by so quickly. One day, you’re shooting fireworks, and the next raking the front yard. Too much to think about. Too many changes.

I like it. Tom said. It gives me hope. Tells me the earth is still spinning, he said. One day, it’ll stand still. One day. Then we’re in trouble.

It’s all an illusion. Edward told Tom. One big trick. He lit a cigarette and threw the match on the ground. Just like us. Are we really here? He asked. How do we know?

Tom took out a pocket knife and rolled up his sleeve. There were tracks on his arm. Probably the other one, too. He took the point of the blade and poked the skin, which began to bleed. Looked up at Harold. That’s real. See that. The way it moves down my arm. Like a slow flowing river. Drying up like a riverbed during a drought. He picked at the black blood. Placed some in his mouth. That’s real, Harold. We’re real.

That proves nothing. Harold said.

Pain proves everything.