Palms sweating, he stood there with clenched fists. He wrung his hands day in and day out, the wear of this becoming evident over the past several months when the reality of our situation had finally hit; he’d been living in a dream world before. What were we to do? We’d effectively trapped ourselves as a result of our general young adult naivety. The truth is, it wasn’t our fault—or it certainly wasn’t mine—but who’s to believe that? Not after all the tales I’ve conjured. I’m a returning author in the lie department, but you don’t see my hands give it away. Not like his. It’s obvious he’s nervous, knuckles turning white as he digs his nails into his palms—nails that have been bitten and torn away, skin around the edges picked and pulled. Tortured, tortured hands of a poor man.