[ a second rambutan deposits itself in kaveh's hands. there are now two beaded fruits there, the colour of a small, pink universe unto themselves. alhaitham presses another thin stack of rambutan peels into the palm of his hand, and begins on a third. the edge of his nail pries apart the thick, hardened rind. the pads of his fingers break apart the pliable skin and shred it along the contours of its flesh. the final fruit sits, glistening, against the curve of his thumb. he eats it. the pit is a stone in the back of his mouth. the fruit is overly sweet. it is the season for rambutans, just as it is the season for autumn, and the season for the celebration of a birth of a god. alhaitham takes his handkerchief and discards the pit into it. then, he looks to kaveh.

in the thing, silverine strands of morning light filtering from the canopy of the divine tree, kaveh's skin is sallow. the pallid of his complexion is accentuated by the thin wisps of flyaway hairs along his forehead, framing the sunken pits of his cheeks. he has lost weigh. he has lost vitality, which has little to do with weight. the morning light is a halo. one would not be surprised if the light were to consume kaveh; one would not be surprised if kaveh were no longer whole.

alhaitham, who remains unsurprised, simply looks at him. he continues to look. ]

Fear suggests that I anticipate danger and uncertainty. [ is what alhaitham says. ] What is uncertain or dangerous about your state of being? I know where you are. Where would you go that I cannot find you? Where would you go where I cannot follow?

[ the green of his eyes flicker down, to the handkerchief. alhaitham holds it up, with a shrug of a gesture. ]

Eat. They are unbearably sweet. Though the illness has decreased the sensitivity of your palate, you will find them just so.

[ and discard the pits here. ]