Paper Boats for Two

The rain began during visiting hours, which felt like a courtesy. Theo folded the first boat badly. His father folded the second with the old precision of someone who had once had time for hobbies and then had not.

They lined the boats on the sill as if they were waiting for a tide that understood indoor weather. A nurse smiled without asking. The room had heard enough questions.

When the window was opened a crack, one boat lifted and then did not go anywhere, which was, Theo thought, almost a complete sentence. His father named the boats after streets they had lived on, including one that no longer existed because the city had straightened a river.

They did not talk about later. They talked about paper, and how some folds are stronger if you do not press them all the way down. That night Theo left both boats where they were. In the morning only one remained. He did not ask the staff. He already knew how rooms misplace small things.