[ It’s a particularly comforting metaphor to give to a fellow who struggles to see the appeal of storms, except on a distant theoretical level that allows for other people to go out and love them if they want to, that’s fine, write him a poem to read about it afterwards, but in the meantime he’ll be as indoors as possible, maybe with his head under a pillow, thanks.

Between that and Byerly’s tone, he smiles, and the fear shrinks, and he’s quiet for a moment just to feel it.

Then: ]

Is it when I drool in my sleep? Because, actually, that is on purpose. [ It’s not. ] It’s meant to be endearing. I don’t even do it naturally. I have to work up a big mouthful of spit before I fall asleep so it can leak out overnight.