Pushing him on the swing, his small, solid back against my palm.
Peeling the lid off a bin full of sheets and towels and bringing them to my nose for a deep breath.
We dissect twigs and seed pods with plastic knives that he calls "plant knives." Afterwards, he shows me some plastic animal pets, including a rat with a yellow splotch on its back that he calls a "sunspot rat." (It also has white spots on it, but he says those are there to make it look sick so other animals don't eat it.)
The dog is nearly beside herself with the need to press her nose into people.
In the first round of our drawing competition, we both draw tigers, and he declares himself the winner. Second round, after I've drawn his sunspot rat, he graciously calls a draw.
The silence of what we're not telling each other makes the car feel like it's going to implode.
They take hide-and-seek to another level, not only finding the most improbable places to hide but texting each other updates on the seeker's location.