He'd trained himself for years: drank and smoked and snorted whatever made it okay, for people to be close to him. Whatever made them not so loud, whatever kept the lines of them from blurring with his own. No more personal space, no more holding the world at arm's length--not physically, anyway. Here in the village, he doesn't need it. No powers, no impressions of people. He has to know them the old fashioned way.

He should know Ty better than any of them. He should be used to Ty, up close. When Ty frowns at him, he can't help the hand reaching up, touching his eyebrow. It's hard to see, but he can feel the little blunt ridge of a scar.

He has not lost his mind enough, to ask to see Ty's hip. How is he the one with all the scars? The knowing he can live with. Knowing too much was his whole shit deal in life. But it was never history. He puts his hand down and blows across the bottom of the stove, stirring the flames higher. He pushes himself up.

"Me? When do I ever tell you anything? There's a whole book of shit that explains it better than I could."