Kavinsky could see the way that Newt was looking at himself, but it was just at himself--his own skin, his own disease, made strangely, oddly manifest. Kavinsky could not see it. He curled his fingers over Newt's hands, covering his elegant palms and the veins on the backs of his hands, and he drew Newt gently to his feet.

It was such a short walk, back to bed, but it felt like a march. He walked backward, keeping his eyes on Newt's face. When they reached the edge, he climbed on and moved to the middle, drawing Newt with him.

"You want anything? Tea or a soda or something?"