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Reacher nodded. He enjoyed watching soccer, to an extent. But you had to be exposed early and gradually. It looked very free-form, but it was a very technical game. Full of hidden attractions. But he could see how a young girl could be seduced by it, long ago in Europe. A frantic night under floodlights in Rotterdam. Resentful and unwilling at first, then hypnotized by the patterns made by the white ball on the green turf. Ending up in love with the game afterward.
He shrugged
Reacher shrugged.
Reacher shrugged.
Reacher said nothing. Just sat and stared into space.
Reacher glanced at him. Said nothing.
Borken shrugged.
Reacher shrugged.
“Suis pas américain,” Reacher said.
Reacher stared at the wall.
Reacher shrugged and nodded.
Reacher shrugged unhappily.
Reacher shrugged and said nothing.
“There are a hundred and thirteen of them,” Reacher said. “I counted. It’s a prime number.”
this is autistic
She shrugged in his arms.
