A technicality I'm prepared to hide wildly behind.
Sullen monosyllabism, a sure sign of sleep deprivation.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of trauma, I will fear no concussion.
I would hit you on the head with a rock and drag you away from this. But it would only shatter the rock.
My hair had grown out long and shaggy—not in that sexy-young-rock-star kind of way but in that time-to-take-Rover-to-the-groomer kind of way.
Oh, I get it," I said. "You're Evil Harry, lurking inside Good Harry. Right? And you only come out at night?