Back home from the fields, and the boy is with us.  We step into my apartment--ours, while we learn--and breathe in air rich in oxygen and scented sweet and green and organic with the trays of wheatgrass on shelves in front of the window and the two compost bins by the door.  The shields around the walls pulse purple as the boy steps through the door and I wonder what it means.
   "It feels nice in here," the boy says, standing near the door with his hands folded politely.
   "Thank you," I say.
   My friend flings herself onto the couch, stares at me for a moment, then looks at the computer in the corner of the room.  She drags herself from the couch to the computer and sits down.