The Green Enamel Weight

The smell of antiseptic and wet plaster coats the air. I stand in the former gymnasium of the high school, fluorescent tubes humming overhead. A vending machine sits against the wall, its selection of chips branded with a logo from the 1990s. Near the lockers, a woman in navy scrubs moves, her weight settling into the polished floor tiles. I clutch the fruit—it is deep violet, smooth, and heavy, its shape defying botanical rules. Across the hall, a door opens onto another door, painted institutional yellow. A boy stands in the gap, his hands empty, his name nowhere on the roster board. The quiet around the entrance has a specific warmth, like the slow heat of sun on stone.