Graft

Hughes had never been much of a people person; to be more accurate, he peopled poorly (having neither the inclination nor the ability to sense impending emotional doom). When he'd had the accident and spent time in the hospital, no one had visited and (as there was no pet to be sitted) he was not required to be grateful or available in kind for services rendered. But the skin grafts (the left forearm had taken the worst of the grease fire) had provided Hughes with a kind of "feeling index" he'd never had before: a tingle if something was interesting, a prickling sensation if he should flee in all haste. Now, as Pillen sat down and asked, "Mind if I smoke?" as they lit up simultaneously, Hughes felt a kind of rush in the arm and casually looked down to see that all of the hairs around the patch were standing straight up. "I'm glad you could meet," Pillen said, smoking up a storm (but careful to exhale away from the table). "I need someone entirely objective to hear this." Hughes was relieved that there appeared to be no interest in or pressure to talk about his own life and circumstances, as the arm was doing its thing (the standing hairs were waving now, as if stirred by a strong breeze). He had no idea what to make of it but, as the story began to unfold, quickly determined that his physical tell knew the difference between "extremely dramatic" and "criminally insane".