Four billion years, and the rain no longer touches you.
Understand what we did to get here. The lungfish gulped a sky it could not breathe. The shrew pressed itself into cold mud while the storm hammered the world flat above it and prayed, in the small way a shrew prays, simply to be dry enough not to die of dry.
The woman who kept the fire spent whole nights hunched over an ember, shielding it from the drip coming through the roof of hides, because a wet fire was a dead family by morning. Weather was the enemy that never once stopped hunting us. Every one of us, all of us, mapped the sky like a threat, because it was.
And now you unfold a small dome of stretched cloth over your own head with the twitch of one thumb. You do this without looking up. You do this while thinking about something else entirely. The rain, our ancient warden, our killer of infants and drowner of crops, arrives, and you simply lift a stick and it patters harmlessly onto fabric a hand's width above your hair and runs off into the gutter where it can no longer reach you.
We do not fully believe it. Some of us keep waiting for the cold to find your spine. It never does.
You are annoyed by it. We can feel that you are annoyed, that the wind turns the little dome inside out and you mutter and wrestle it and consider the whole thing a nuisance to your Tuesday.
Good. Be annoyed by the rain. Be so safe from the sky that it has shrunk to an inconvenience. That was the entire point.
We are all standing here in the downpour, watching you stay dry, and none of us can stop grinning.