I always wondered what it would be like to touch grass. I saw pictures that my parents did when they were kids. I imagine it would be hard, and sharp, and smooth. Like a knife. They drew them bright green, protruding from the ground; my mom drew the grass curved, my dad drew them straight, all lined up. I wonder if there were different types of grass. I wish I could ask them. Someone raps on the side of the metal sheet wall and I come back. There is no grass here; just endless red dirt. My name is #10642.