Kavinsky suddenly had a distinct memory of sitting in a therapist's office, shortly after the event with his father, shortly after they moved to Virginia, and listening as the doctor told his mother what he thought was wrong. He swallowed, compulsively. He had no reason to think that Jack's sister was anything like him, but he understood that feeling of helplessness, when you struggled to tell the difference between reality and unreality, and the world told you you were sick.

He'd just told them exactly what they wanted to hear so they wouldn't lock him up, and learned, quickly, how to hide everything else in plain sight.

"Sorry," he said, and shook his head. He laughed. "I'm sorta messed up about sex, probably. I shouldn't load that off on you. Lots of people have totally normal, fun sex and don't worry about that stuff. And you did too last night. And this morning."