“If only those ‘others’ could understand what I know,” Miguel thought. He didn’t talk, he didn’t feel he had to.
He was slow to get dressed, he couldn’t stop shaking the small plastic globe, the fascination had become a full-blown idea, one he’d never be able to share, not that he really wanted too.
“A world,” he grunted as he slipped his pants on, “A globe, a dome, and we all live in it and under it.”
“Miguel!” he heard his Madre say, “Your desayanos getting cold. Prisa!”
His thought of the dome disappeared as he hurried towards the kitchen.