The lunchroom has a smell even before lunch. Floor cleaner. Plastic trays. The flat sweetness of milk cartons waiting their turn.

Eli sits down and puts his lunchbox on the table, lining it up carefully with the edge. The table is scratched here, and he traces one of the marks with his finger while he waits.

Nearby, someone opens a container. The smell rises quickly and fills the space between breaths. Eli feels it behind his eyes and at the back of his throat, as though the whole room tipped slightly without actually moving. He stays still because sometimes staying still helps, but this time it does not.

He closes his eyes for two slow counts, presses his lips together, then lets them go again. The smell remains. After a moment, he picks up his lunchbox and stands. The room feels larger once he is moving through it.

He walks to the far table beside the wall, the one that is usually empty. The air there feels different. Thinner. Less busy. He sits down and opens his lunchbox slowly. The apple slices are cold, and when he bites into one, the crunch stays exactly where it is supposed to.

Across the room, chairs scrape against the floor. One laugh bumps into another and breaks apart. Eli chews quietly while looking out the window. A bird lands on the fence outside, hops once, then again, and tilts its head sideways before going still.

Eli lowers his eyes back to the table and takes another apple slice.

Later, he carries his empty lunchbox back across the room. Someone else has taken his old seat, but there is space nearby, so he sits there instead. No one asks why he moved, and no one asks why he came back.

When the bell rings, Eli stands with everyone else and walks out while the fence outside remains exactly where it was.