At the party’s end, Michael stared outside at the lamppost, which lit up a section of the driveway and left the rest in darkness. It was getting colder; the spring nights still had their chill. Stray fog was drifting through his yard as it always did; he could see an occasional flicker as it blanketed the light post. The clouds moved quickly out here over the rocky coasts and dark, cold waters surrounding their peninsula; the sky was constantly in motion with charged gray matter—above, a mass moving purposefully forward; below, playful swirls of mist skipping over the houses and trees, causing mischief. Some of Rhode Island was tacky, but this little strip of land was positively wild and elegant, he felt, like an old English marsh. If he got too caught in his head, he knew to come outside. The cool, wind-filled air always dissipated his anxiety, the paranoia that had marred his life. It was like an evil growth, a malignancy that clung to his side and made thoughts arrive in his mind at a different timbre from regular people’s.

The paranoid brain was fast and often perceived an innocent look or comment as mocking or cruel; hints were amplified and meanings distorted. Talking with other people could be a horrifying experience, though Michael could usually pass for normal. Most of the pain was internal, a private hell that his silent, brooding twin offered up daily tickets to. To make matters worse, the older he got, the less his medication seemed to work. It still put a sheath over about thirty-five percent of the anxiety, but the rest stayed strong and functional, doing what it did best. At work, though he was admired and had made it into senior management, nothing to worry about anymore, he still had to flick a switch when talking to other people. That clicked on the full smile and the easy handshake, which banished the dark thoughts and lit up his eyes, creating the impression that the person before him was the most important person in the world. The autoswitch clicked off once he left the conversation, and the great swell of tension returned and claimed him again.

But coming outside seemed to free him from the dark mass and the dark mind, and the elements of wind, water, and earth pulled him away from himself. There were the pine trees, the sea-misted air, the sounds of the water on stormy nights, all the little animals and birds, hawks and owls that moved around the outside of his house, securing shelter and adapting to the moods of the atmosphere. In a sense, it was unnatural to live in a solid house that was never affected by the weather. If he had been an animal or lived in a house that was not sealed with sterility, his mind might have been freer and less paranoid. The salt air would soothe the malignancy, coax it away into the night.