Something about him was decidedly wrong. He was like one of those pictures full of small errors, the kind you could only pick out by searching the image from every angle, and even then, a few always slipped by. On the surface, he seemed perfectly normal, but now and then you would catch a crack, a sideways glance, a moment when his face and his words, his look and his meaning, would not line up. It was like watching two people, one hiding in the other’s skin. And their skin was always too dry, on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath.