There is something terrifying about it. It floats upon a background of darkness, a universe of darkness, pinpricked by tiny dots of light. They are like stars. They are hardly more than suggestions of light. The balloon does not move but looks as if it might move, suddenly—if you were to lean down and breathe upon it, surely it would float away? No, it does not float away. Pass your fingers near it lightly, not touching it. What are those grainy lines? They are like pencil lines. Like hairs. They seem about to lift themselves, to rise to the warmth of your fingers. But they do not move. The balloon itself is motionless, as if dormant for centuries. You can see through it, yet there is nothing behind it. Along its edges there are long thin lesions, as if someone had torn into the flesh of this thing with a knife. You can run your fingernail along the edge of the balloon and destroy it, and your fingernail springs into the microscope’s lens like a planet.… Helene was staring through Jesse’s microscope.
