Heading out for some air, away from the suits, mail robots, paper stacks, and electromagnetic fields, we take a shortcut through the new wing, dimly lit, and somewhat eerie. Not yet occupied, it feels abandoned.
Located on the Institute’s outskirts, the park is convenient. It’s too bad; we’ve already had lunch—the weather’s early October fresh, crisp. Primal, peaceful, and remote, it’s perfect for a picnic. We walk down a grassy embankment to the river. Mia stumbles. I support her elbow, instinctively reach for her hand but catch myself. A wild pigeon flies directly overhead, in unison with a fighter jet flying miles higher. A two-person team paddles a sleek, carbon-fiber racing canoe that cuts through water swiftly.
Mia sits onshore on an above-ground tree root that bends bench-like. I crouch beside her, watching the water boil, flowing over, under, around, and through trash wood trapped on the riverbed. The current is hypnotic. We are alone.