Finished with the cut, he lowered the guy to the ground slowly, letting his head leave a wet, messy smear against the white of the refrigerator doors. Then trembling with want, like an addict in need of a fix, he moved over to him, lowering himself to his knees so he could drag his head into his lap. He'd have to sneak upstairs when they got home to change his jeans, but right now it didn't matter -- right now, he had his fingers in the guy's ruined skull, searching for answers.

"You have to imagine it," he told her, his voice distant and dimly strained. "Or like ... using your fingernails to peel an orange. Same principle."

He could have continued making suggestions all night -- three more had sprung to mind when he'd mentioned peeling an orange -- but instead he stopped short, humming in pain, and closed his eyes tightly. He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, there and then gone in an instant, and winced, a whimper falling out of him in spite himself. Clearly he had found what he was looking for and, as always, it hurt.