[ He catches the beer reflexively. It's not cold but it's solid in his hand. Carver smooths his thumb absently over the rim. Sometimes, it's hard to focus on things he can't touch, on a target that isn't directly in front of him. You've got a focus problem, son, Pope used to say, and his disappointment always cut so goddamn sharp. But the beer is real, he thinks, real enough he can hold it in his hands: that's something.
no subject
Isn't it? ]
Would you?