They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. She repeated phrases of Mrs. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. He was a philosopher. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. There was no longer any risk in association with her. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes.
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