He hunched his shoulders and sat with his fingers loosely locked. He studied an unfinished tattoo on his forearm. The outline had been drawn but he stopped short of getting it shaded.

“I can move things with my brain. At least I think it’s my brain.”

‘What else would it be, idiot? It’s not the power of the holy spirit.’

He looked at Holly. There was something about her that made it easy to talk. She was chill. Even her voice was nonchalant and sort of raspy, like his throat felt after he smoked.

“Still think we’ve got so much in common?” he asked. He looked miserable.