He doesn’t tell Dave why he hides his food under the futon, behind mixing equipment, inside the bricks of his desk. Why his swords are two steps from where he sleeps, and why he’s trained himself to cat nap in three hour intervals of insomniac nervousness.

“It’s like, his little hornzorz!” Latula says. She rips open a new pack of Flamin Hott Fire Crispoz with extreme prejudice, manic with food dye and pity.