Even more infuriating, March put his two cents in without knowing the situation, putting his hypothetical psychology degree to the test. “His alters don’t love you, Xanthe.” He said, in a way that made me vaguely feel as though I were being condescended to by a breathy 900 number.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I never had enough reason to believe about half of my friends actually existed within their own bodies and had their own social security numbers. Except… “But you slept with Aberle? You told me you met him? In person?”