He's looking through the window from an angle where all he can see is the chalky blue sky just before sunset.
The world's smallest volcano is resting on his forehead.
It erupted last night, but he doesn't say anything about it because he knows his mother is right about how it wouldn't be there if he was more hygenic.
He can't stand the smell of sofrito in his mother's kitchen.
He stands to see a girl outside, hanging by her nose from the aroma.
Hey. Do you want to come inside?