In preschool I remember being interested in a boy who wore an black eye patch, not as a costume but for medical purposes, and he was always alone. The playground was mine after school let out because I lived there; I felt like the only survivor of something when I looked out in the vacant yard that was hidden from the highway, but during school recess I would walk past the boy to the blue shed at the end of the playground. A few other girls and I put flowers in the white scalloped boxes underneath the windows of the small house, and we painted its sides with small paintbrushes and water we carried around in plastic cups, over and over again, trying to keep the splintering wood wet with a darker color forever.