They say biting your nails is a kind of O.C.D., the good kind, I’m sure, he says out loud, surprising himself with the momentary unfamiliarity of his own voice. He would trade his kind in a heartbeat, that of counting the tiles on the floors of unfamiliar bathrooms, measuring with his eyes where he would put a cot if this space enclosed a simple cabin.
He drinks more than three cups of coffee a day, elevating his risk for blindness caused by exfoliation glaucoma. If this were his cabin, seven by eight feet with a bed opposite the sink and paper towel dispenser, he’d have no trouble navigating it blind.
They say that Michigan is a pleasant peninsula, but he knows it’s nothing at all like Florida.