That hand of his was pretty firmly lodged in his pocket. I had to use both of mine to dig it out.
We were on our way back by then; we'd followed the tracks as far as we were going to. It was midnight and we were alone.
I remember holding him by the wrist so I could get my hand around his. All that effort for what I had meant to be a brief moment. Lucky thing, too, since he actually seemed unsure how he felt about the whole thing--
--until I squeezed to let go.
He squeezed back, and held *on.* Not hard, but *deep.*
This is how it happens when you break through to a silent man.
We laced fingers.
I was so aware in those days of how he smelled. It was still new to me, like everything about him.
They called him Psycho.
The lights of the campus were coming back.
