The classroom fan was slow to turn its head. I counted to twelve before the air reached me. Counting had become a habit, and while I counted, I wrote short sentences in the margins of my notebook.

Every time the breeze came, the boy next to me pressed his handouts flat with his hand. He did it carefully. He probably didn't think of himself as careful.

There were days I meant to say something to him. Each time, the breeze came, and somewhere in the count to twelve, the moment ended.