You’re just not used to touch, I tell myself. Yes. That’s it. It must have been a handful of years since the last time. I like to choose very bad people as meals, so I limit my physical contact with them, while Lazlo . . . He is not food. He is a person, an immortal just like me, surprisingly solid in a world where everything drifts past, disappearing too quickly. It’s disorienting, is all.
