He was slowly going mad in that hotel, but otherwise the fortnight had passed more or less without incident. Each night he would see them at dinner, and their conversation would be pleasant enough, if not hopelessly guarded. During the afternoons he walked in rings around the hotel compound, counting the remaining time until the next meal while the lawns choked in the low light. As he walked he would think back to earlier residencies, which were the closest experiences he’d had to something like this. Did he always feel this same sense of isolation, like he had been quarantined, somehow, from what was happening? It felt so precarious. Everyone was very friendly and smiled when he sat down at the table, but he could say the wrong thing, or he could not say enough good things, and no doubt it would be all over soon enough. Whatever he thought might happen here was all hidden now beneath layers of routine and awkwardness, and any attempt to retrieve it would only result in disappointment.