The man’s hair is greasy, and his eyes dart around the room as he relates to me the tale of his car accident. “It’s a miracle I’m alive,” he says.
I can smell him, and I wonder when he last showered. His shirt is on backwards, and the front of his slacks is unclasped (the back falls far enough to make plain he’s not wearing underwear).
“It was a quadruple spin that turned into a flip, and I walked away without a scratch, because of Jesus Christ. Because of JESUS CHRIST!” He punches his fist into an opposing palm for emphasis.
He is clearly not well.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t right.