Privately, Ned is certain that his abnormality is of a different sort than Ginsberg's, that if Ginsberg ever found out what he can actually do, he would do something far more drastic than hide in a closet. He has much more than what Ned's come to think of as the average allowance for peculiarity, for vulnerability, for strangeness. But all that he's shared with Ginsberg thus far has been within the bounds of physics and the accepted scientific way of looking at the world. What would he do if he knew the rest?

Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.

"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."