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It was a good story. It made him feel better. Stories were useful that way, they smoothed over the gaps and sharp edges of the world.
“Of all the animals,” she said, “only man can feel a despair that is beyond his power to endure.”
He swore a solemn vow that if he survived this he would always, for the rest of his life, if given the choice, go to bed.
A creeping fear began slowly consuming Orwen, a fear that no one would ever see him. He would never be at home anywhere, because his body itself was a foreign country to him, and the person who other people saw was a stranger to him. How was it not obvious to them that he was a boy? Everybody else looked like who they were. Why not him?
He seemed to have been put on earth to make a point, but it was God’s point, not his.
