But what was Evanson, exactly? He always wore khaki Dockers and a yellow, gray, or brown Polo; his face remained boyish, smooth, but the intermittent double chin foretokened middle age; the standard haircut, too, could be read as either juvenile or professional, although his dark red hair had started to thin on top. Evanson sometimes appeared to him as an accomplished elder—the Harvard pedigree—and then suddenly he struck Adam as a species of man-child, a twenty-five-year-old coaching forensics at his former high school because he couldn’t cut it “back East.” As if he were always on camera,
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