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I seldom ate out, both for reasons of economy and because I feared someone might try to speak to me.
and I couldn’t count how many departmental meetings were sidetracked into a long session of mutual hate for the library, often combined with suspicion the librarians were hiding critical items for no apparent reason. Perhaps the architecture had driven them mad as well.
“Don’t fret. Things will work out, or they won’t. Worrying won’t make any difference.”
“More like a cabinet of curiosities—the staff, that is, not the museum.”
Dear heavens, maybe I was going mad, talking to myself in the confines of my office. Not to suggest I was the only one; I sometimes heard my colleagues muttering to themselves as I passed by their open doors.
I’d never cared what anyone thought of me before. Everyone already considered me odd, but I’d accepted my fate even before I reached adulthood. I wasn’t athletic enough, or competitive enough, or manly enough; I was too bookish, too quiet, too awkward. And that was fine, really. Or, if not fine, at least tolerable. Survivable. Before Griffin had come along, I’d been living inside a photograph: just a facsimile of life, without either color or depth. Could I go back to it, now that I had seen the alternative?
