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June, when the light is oppressive. Grant walked outside. The meal sat heavy in his stomach, distending his belly. Grant blinked at the light. He looked up and saw the sunlight, filtered through the trees. He remembered documentaries about fish: the light always has a grainy, solid feel to it as it washes past all the debris from the surface, the detritus from the creatures above. It looks as if you could reach out and snap a piece of light off, like an icicle. He walked out of the shade of the tree and felt the light smash down onto him. Photons with weight. He could feel the heat radiating from the ground, pinning his arms to his sides.

Grant got into his car and inhaled. Warm, stale air. He gripped the belt buckle and felt the warmth of the metal on his skin. It clicked when he put it together, but it felt muffled and slow. He turned the key in the ignition and felt the engine turn over slowly and methodically. It was slow and distant, and he felt as if he was watching someone else turn on his car and drive away. He hyperventilated as he drove. His hands gripped the steering wheel and his knuckles turned white. He reminded himself that it was him driving, that he wasn't watching someone else. He watched as someone else's arms guided the wheel. Someone else's car glided slowly and effortlessly through the curves on the road. Someone else's legs crushed the brake pedal. Someone else's chest heaved. Someone else threw his door open and ran into the field across the road. He ran until he couldn't run anymore, and dropped to his knees and panted. The light smashed down on him once more, the heat radiating off of the ground and pinning his arms to his sides.

January on the top of a mountain. Mary pulled her ski boots tighter and cinched down her gloves. She looked down the mountain and pulled in as much air as she could manage. It felt empty. She pulled off her goggles and rubbed her eyes. It was too bright, but it didn't feel as if the light managed to accomplish anything. Light ricocheted off of the snow and ice and smashed into her eyes, but the light felt thin and useless. She stood. Skiiers sliced past her, leaving thin trails in the snow. They shrank and then were swallowed up by the next rise. The trees below her were tiny and pitiful. They looked like a thin veneer of tree that had been spread over the slopes by a paintbrush. Mary wiggled her toes, and they felt far away, like they were connected to her by miles of tether. She smashed her feet into her skiis and pushed away. She flew down the mountain, but the air didn't feel like it was moving past her. She sliced straight through it.

Nothing felt real; Mary bit her lip and tried to think. Nothing.

Suddenly, she was at the bottom of the mountain. She threw open the door to her hotel room and flung her coat and skiis to the floor. They settled slowly and gently to the ground. Not satisfied, she picked them up and beat the skiis on the floor. They raised little puffs of grainy dust that floated gently through the air. She got up and ran at the wall as fast as she could. She bounced off of it and hit the ground hard. She lay there panting and beating her fists on the floor. Solid. She turned all the lights on in the room, yanking chains and slapping light switches. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She sat there with her legs crossed, panting, holding her flashlight and flicking it on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off.