Barry turns around and sees.
  The little girl playing on the swing set, swings in time with the wheel chair she rolls as an old woman. The girl who lies down on her back in the backback seatseat, lies down on the hospital bed to give birth, sits up to take her last Communion, sits up to go out to school.
  Simultaneity, Barry hears.
  But he cannot keep the images in his head. He feels his face streaked with tears. He sits in the back seat, on the graveyard lawn, in the dream state, painfully awake as they draw blood, his face wrinkled and soft at once.
  At once, he hears. At always.