Louis learns the trick to turning invisible is to make everyone else invisible first. It’s a weird feeling, sliding through a crowd that can barely see you, buffeted and knocked aside by people who flicker in and out of existence, the surprise on their faces already giving way to abstraction. It’s not that he doesn’t see them, really; they’re there, but they aren’t really important, like a store you pass every day and never go inside.

Louis doesn’t spy on people, doesn’t sneak into places he isn’t supposed to, doesn’t learn strange and hidden things about the people who can’t see him. He doesn’t care. He wades through unpainted people and keeps his mind full and curious with his own thoughts. He thinks about words, sometimes, and about the stars, and other times about himself. He takes no notes, writes no letters, leaves no record behind. When he dies the grass grows up over him and translucent feet tramp back and forth over the slight rise that is the only lingering sign of his discovery.