They dance. I can hear their feet lift and slap down lightly, the tiny exhalations of effort as they leap and spin around one another, new orifices opening and closing to make punctuation and colour in the greyness. The human body is a quite excellent thing, balanced and powerful and able to run on relatively varied and even quite poor fuels to produce consciousness. It’s spectacular. In a less advanced context—before proper control of infection, say, or immediately after the collapse of antibiotic medicine—or if you’ve been raised on a diet of medical dramas, the opening of the human form means death and mayhem and emergency. Here it does not. There are no spurting blood vessels or cries of alarm. This is what these shapes were made to do, and they do it perfectly. And then they stop, and go into their houses, and that’s it, like a cuckoo clock a minute after the hour.