There’s Caleb staring at a stovetop covered in pots, each full to brimming with water, a stopwatch, pad and pen held in an arrangement of fingers, shuffled amidst them with the delicate alacrity of a seasoned croupier. ‘I’m seeing if its true,’ he says, eyes intent, ‘if they’ll boil.’ Everything still but for the pensive agitation of the water. ‘It’s always yes,’ he says, ‘I can’t tell if it’s me or them or time itself.’ I wonder what will happen if I make him look at me. Have you seen how long it takes without watching? I ask him.

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