Free and the smell of all things hardware as I wander aisles, my father’s voice barely in range. Laughter barrels up in me like a warm fire rising as I reach for white sponge wedges and colour fans. This is my outside: no wind, but wandering strangers, safe, familial. I wander through, reach out to touch and smell each thing, grasp at others’ thing-ness, lost in the memory.