It was 104 F that day. When the sun went down it was barely any cooler. We turn the ceiling fan on to its highest setting, its helicopter wind carrying the sound of my voice away. Without words, he touches my steaming skin. I struggle to find comfort in his hands, though I really want to. I have avoided his skin for weeks, only seeing the dark spots behind him. But here he stands in front of me, falcon’s wings spread out in swirls of hair over his heart, and I know what is real.