In the bright light, he nervously picked the imaginary lint off his clothes. He remembered what the neurologists call it: carphologia. He tightened his grip on Dr. Larch’s bag and peered into the darkness. Suddenly, it was clear to him—where he was going. He was only what he always was: an orphan who’d never been adopted. He had managed to steal some time away from the orphanage, but St. Cloud’s had the only legitimate claim to him. In his forties, a man should know where he belongs.
