Lawrence knew himself, the very center of himself. He was everything Everett was not, solidity made flesh, certainty shaped into a man. Everett chased ghosts and steered clear of shadows, flickered away from the past like a candle shying its flame. Meeting Lawrence was like meeting an immoveable force of nature. He was the mountain, the peak, the steadiness. And Everett had blown up against him, wind-torn and ravaged, a broken thing thrown away, discarded from life and everything he’d hoped for.
