“Okay…” Sam draws out the word, making it clear how weird he thinks I’m being.

“Well, just to take an example,” I push on: “your hands.”

“My hands?”

He’s trying to keep up the you’re-so-weird tone, but is it just my imagination or is there a new, prickly energy in the room?

“Okay, just humor me,” I say. “About how many times a day do you wash your hands, Sam? Ballpark.”

I’m remembering, now, our day at the farmer’s market, and the pink, chapped fingertips. How I put it all down to the winter weather.

He doesn’t answer.

“Dunno,” he says after a while.

“Just very approximately, Sam.”

He’s still silent.

“Is it more than ten?” I say, and he shrugs. I take a breath.

“More than fifteen?”

I don’t get to ask about twenty, because Sam interrupts me angrily.

“Why do you even care? It’s just being clean. Being clean is a good thing.”

It’s the sharpest, the angriest I’ve heard Sam be, and I try not to wince. I knew he might get angry; I was even expecting it. But I’m not sure how to get around it. I hesitate, and then to my surprise Oliver clears his throat. He moves over to the table, puts his hands on the back of a chair.

“Sam…what happens if you don’t wash your hands when you feel you’re supposed to?”

Sam blinks like a rabbit in headlights, and suddenly I feel so much anguish for him. I almost want us to stop, because it’s easy to see this interrogation is becoming painful for him. But now that I know we’re onto something, I know that stopping isn’t the right thing.

For a long time Sam says nothing.

“Sam?”

Another silence. He closes his eyes.

“I can’t help it,” he says finally. It comes out not much above a whisper. “I know it’s crazy but I can’t.”

“Sam,” I say. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, his eyes flashing wide open now, as angry as if I’d lied. “It’s not okay. I’m a freak.”

“Nobody is a freak,” I say. “You hear me?”

He doesn’t look at us.

“Then what am I—crazy? If you hear voices you’re crazy, right?”

I glance back at Oliver, who’s frowning.

“What do you mean, exactly?” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “What kind of voices?”

Sam shrugs. I can see the effort it takes him to force out the words.