His arm is stretched out toward me across the table, forearm facing up. His hand is open, his fingers curled. My hand is on the table, too; we’re not touching, but I’m near enough that the back of my hand feels warmer where it’s closest to his skin.

On his forearm is the Chartres labyrinth, painstakingly rendered in blue ink. I am aching to touch it, to feel if there are ridges of scar tissue along the thin, winding lines. I keep my hands where they are.

He is telling me his stories. This particular story, the story of how he came to wear this medieval maze on his body, is among his most close-kept ones. Hearing him tell it, I feel the weight of this confidence, yet unearned, and I want badly to earn it.

When I take his arm in my hands and lightly touch the edges of the circle, the gesture is so impulsive that it surprises even me. He jolts, almost imperceptibly, under my fingertips at the unexpected contact. I am afraid to look at his face.

“One way in, and one way out,” he is saying, and he is right.