That's an easy question to start with; Ginsberg can probably feel a small amount of the tension go out of him when it is nothing more complicated than that, at first. "Digby," he says, without hesitation. "When I was a kid, he was playing in the road and got hit by a truck. He was dead, but then I touched him and he got up and was fine. That was the first time it happened. It just sort of came out of nowhere. One day I was normal, and the next, I wasn't. I have no idea why."

Ned settles an arm around Ginsberg's shoulders, feels that... this is okay. He can do this. In a way it's almost nice. All of this is something he's never had the opportunity to talk about. It's the removal of a barrier between the two of them - a huge barrier. Ned hadn't realized quite how far apart it kept them, until it was gone. Some of this is discernible in the increasing ease and warmth of his voice as he elaborates, "That's why I can't touch him, now. I don't know if you've noticed. You probably didn't. Most people don't. If I were to touch him again, he'd die. So I can't."