The chirping of cicadas tore through the June morning, chalk dust fell on the desks, and the sunlight filtered through the sycamore leaves, casting tiny spots of light in the folds of the textbooks. The ceiling fan was whirring, and the air smelled of sweat and oil—he was lying on the table pretending to be asleep, but his ears were erect.
Intention: The wind he brought when he passed by made me more deprived of oxygen than the whole summer.