I stared at the floor, my mind racing. Did I... did I look like the kind of person who ought to be avoided in a game of bus seat selection?
I could only conclude, in the face of the evidence, that I did.
But why? I would have to reason my way to the answer. I wasn’t overweight.
I didn’t smell—I showered daily, and I laundered my clothes regularly.
That left madness, then. Was I mad? No. No, I wasn’t.
I was suffering from clinical depression, but that was an illness. It wasn’t madness.
Did I look mad, then? Act mad? I didn’t think so. But then, how would I know?
Was it my scar? My eczema? My jerkin? Was it a sign of madness even to think you might be mad?
I rested my elbows on my knees and placed my head in my hands. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“You all right, hen?” a voice said, and I felt a hand on my shoulder, causing me to startle and sit up again.
It was the man with no socks, who was en route to the front of the bus.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, not making eye contact. He sat down next to me while the bus approached the next stop.
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