The mother drives her son everywhere because he is not well enough to drive. He sits next to her, and at the red lights she looks over and studies him: how quiet he is, how stiffly he sits, hands in his lap, fingers fidgeting slightly, a tic that occasionally blooms into a full fluttering motion he makes with his hand, as if clearing invisible webs from his face. He is 19 years old, 183 cm tall, 113 kg. His eyes are more steady than bright at this particular moment; his mouth is not set in a smile or a frown but some line in between.
"How're you doing, sweetie?" Naomi Haskell asks.
"Fine," Spencer says.
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