His words slow my pulse. His fingers, square and even, feel nonpareil entwined with mine. He is symmetry. He is color.
"Never," I tell him. "I will never go away."
"You're sure about that?"
"I'm sure I can't live with a Ram-sized hole in my chest."
"That would be a pretty big hole, I think," Ram says.
"Don't be so sure. You're short."
"Hey," Ram protests.
"I worry for you on carnival rides."
"I get on carnival rides just fine, thanks."
"The operator doesn't stop you?"
"Tim," He pauses. "Sometimes.
