As the clock approached 8:45 a.m., Kit noticed I was getting antsy. We were, after all, on a relatively tight schedule. “I’m going to see what’s up,” I informed him as I began to stand. “Relax,” Kit said. “Let’s give it fifteen more minutes.” “OK,” I said, nodding as I sat back down. Over the next fifteen minutes, I noticed Kit spending more time looking up at the reception desk than he was playing Candy Crush. This was the part of the Kit-and-Mike anxiety dance in which he gradually absorbed my restlessness and paranoia to the point where we were both one big anxiety powder keg waiting to
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