Daniel reaches out to touch the artifact, brow furrowed, attention given over so completely to what he's staring at that he doesn't notice when the world changes.

His fingers stroke over etched metal, abraded skin flaking on the knuckles from too long on the dig, and I want to feel that roughness against my mouth, my skin.

I move to stop him, pull his hands away, because it's that thing, has to be, but Daniel nods comprehendingly, turns to smile blindingly at us all, and it's fine, it's okay, no harm done.

His world didn't change after all.

Just mine.

10/1/06

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