The little goatboy with his goatface and white arms is spraying me with water, his hoofknuckles, furry fingers abut a green plastic trigger. I am spraying him back, the little womanwoman, with knucklesknuckles and hairless fingers upon a purple trigger. We’re mooing and braying with laughter, moving in slo-mo, such fun. His little jeans, his striped t-shirt over his drumlike child’s tummy. And then a vision comes to me, mid- shot–the future elucidated by rain: little goatboy a little older, with his face in bandages, he has tried to cut off his face, he has grown older now, and tried to remove it. He stares at us through a slit in the gauze. You are only hearing about this now but I’ve had time to dwell on it and I am beyond anguish. I am now at impatience. What does he think will happen next? Does he think it will solve his problems? Does he believe he will fit in with all of us at last, with our faces not missing? He will only be facelessboy then. But right now he is still young, and he is chasing me through purifying dew, and I cherish him while he lets me.