"How is Ans?" the old man asks. I don't remember his name. I do, it's part of myself, but I wish I couldn't remember him. I don't answer his question. He knows I don't like them. "He saved us twice," he adds. How annoying, he won't give up.
"Ans will get better," I tell him before he starts a monologue. He looks satisfied with my answer.
My hand is cherishing the black, black amber hair of Ans. It is soft and delicate, but strong and beautiful at the same time; it is like the breeze in area 7, the flow of air produced by the artificial atmosphere there created. Ans said it was beautiful and only now I can see it. "He will be better soon," I add and the man looks genuinely relieved.
I smile at the person that I have laying on the bed. Ans is laying on the bed because Fabian needs to use
