By the light of the moon

relating to the outer world well
enough to hear your request – and if you had a sufficient
number of hours to listen, since he would be all but impossible to
stop once he got started.
    Now, with the second rinse completed, Shep's hands were red from
excessive scrubbing and from water turned up so hot that he'd
hissed in discomfort as he had endured it. Mindful of the deadly
and cunning microorganisms hiding in plain sight on the chrome
faucet handle, he turned the water off with his elbow.
    Dylan could not imagine any circumstances under which Shepherd
would lie facedown on a lavatory floor and slither under a series
of partitions between toilet stalls. In fact, if it ever were to
happen, you could be certain that simultaneously, in a
sporting-goods store somewhere, Satan would be buying ice
skates.
    Besides, his white T-shirt remained immaculate. He hadn't been
mopping the floor with it.
    Holding his hands high, like a surgeon expecting an assisting
nurse to sheath them in latex gloves, Shep crossed the room to the
towel dispenser. He waited for his brother to turn the crank, which
he would not touch with clean hands.
    'Didn't you go into the first stall?' Dylan asked.
    Head lowered in his customary shy posture, but also cocked so he
could look up sideways at the towel machine, Shepherd frowned at
the handle and said, 'Germs.'
    'Shep, when we came in here, didn't you go straight into the
first stall?'
    'Germs.'
    'Shep?'
    'Germs.'
    'Hey, come on, listen to me, buddy.'
    'Germs.'
    'Give me a break, Shep. Will you listen to me, please?'
    'Germs.'
    Dylan cranked out a few towels, tore them off the perforated
roll, and handed them to his brother. 'But then didn't you come out
of the fourth stall?'
    Scowling at his hands, drying them energetically, obsessively,
instead of merely blotting them on the paper, Shep said,
'Here.'
    'What'd you say?'
    'Here.'
    'What do you hear?'
    'Here.'
    'I don't hear anything, little bro.'
    'H-e-r-e,' Shep spelled with some effort, as if pronouncing each
letter at an emotional cost.
    'What do you want, bro?'
    Shep trembled. 'Here.'
    'Here what?' Dylan asked, seeking clarification even though he
knew that clarification wasn't likely to be granted.
    'There,' said Shep.
    'There?' Dylan asked.
    'There,' Shep agreed, nodding, though continuing to focus
intently on his hands, still trembling.
    'There where?'
    'Here.' The note in Shep's voice might have been impatience.
    'What're we talking about, buddy?'
    'Here.'
    'Here,' Dylan repeated.
    'There,' said Shep, and what had seemed to be impatience matured
instead into a strained note of anxiety.
    Trying to understand, Dylan said, 'Here, there.'
    'Here, th-th-there,' Shep repeated with a shudder.
    'Shep, what's wrong? Shep, are you scared?'
    'Scared,' Shep confirmed. 'Yeah. Scared. Yeah.'
    'What're you scared of, buddy?'
    'Shep is scared.'
    'Of what?'
    'Shep is scared,' he said, beginning to shake more violently.
'Shep is scared.'
    Dylan put his hands on his brother's shoulders. 'Easy, easy now.
It's okay, Shep. There's nothing to be scared about. I'm right here
with you, little bro.'
    'Shep is scared.' The kid's averted face had faded as pale as
whatever haunting spirits he might have glimpsed.
    'Your hands are clean, no germs, just you and me, nothing to be
afraid of. Okay?'
    Shepherd didn't reply but continued to shake.
    Resorting to the singsong cadences with which his brother most
often could be calmed in moments of emotional turmoil, Dylan said,
'Good clean hands, no dirty germs, good clean hands. Gonna go now,
go now, hit the road now. Okay? Gonna roll. Okay? You like the
road, on the road again, on the road, goin' places where we never
been. Okay? On the road again, like old Willie Nelson, you and me,
rollin' along. Like always, rollin'. The old rhythm, the rhythm of
the road. You can read your book, read and ride, read and ride.
Okay?'
    'Okay,' said Shep.
    'Read and ride.'
    'Read and ride,' Shep echoed. The urgency and tension drained
out of his voice even though he still shivered. 'Read and
ride.'
    As Dylan had calmed his brother, Shep had continued to dry his
hands with such energy that the towels had shredded. Crumpled rags
and frayed curls of damp paper littered the floor at his feet.
    Dylan held Shep's hands until they stopped trembling. Gently, he
pried open the clenched fingers and removed the remaining tatters
of the paper towels. He wadded this debris and threw it in the
nearby trash can.
    Placing a hand under Shep's chin, he tipped