In that moment, the weight of him against me, his small hands bunched in my shirt, his breathing slowing as the terror of the infinite found its way into something manageable — which is to say, me — I thought: how can there be a meaning crisis? I couldn’t imagine where you’d put such a thing. There’s no room. Our sofa was full of it. Meaning was rocking off him in waves; unbounded, unselfconscious, requiring nothing from me except to be there and to be solid and to not, for the love of God, flinch.