He was always tinkering with things, working with his hands. That, in fact, was how we met, even thought I didn’t know him at the time. He was working in some sort of shop class, wearing a pair of goggles and playing with power tools. He had cut himself with something and was in the infirmary for a bandage, goggles still around his neck.
I don’t even remember what I was there for, simply that I was there.
He was serious, almost in an inhuman way, something about the air around him.
Trying to break the tension as I waited for the nurse to help me, I asked him about the gash on his arm.
He suddenly lit up, babbling on about some sort of project he was working on and how he had gotten distracted for a split second, letting the tool he was using slip up and slice his arm. He spoke with such care about his project, laughing at the mistake he had made— but as soon as I tried to ask him questions about any other topic, he simply shut down, asking the nurse when he could get back to class.
He was a very odd person.