"I can't be happy with it," he said eventually, referring to the drawing, I assumed. "Because... it's just a rendering. It doesn't breathe, it doesn't say anything, none of them... say anything."
    I wasn't sure I knew what he was talking about, what that note of near-despair meant. He looked as if he had something to get off his chest and was having it out with himself whether or not he should. Maybe he'd tried it before and gotten burned. That he decided "yes" was probably due to the fact that he knew I was a temporary guest on the island.
    He took off his glove. His right hand, and his arm as far as I could see before it disappeared into his coat, was covered with emerald scales, broken by bands of vibrant yellow; the palm was scarlet. Beautiful, in a way.
    I looked at him with slightly raised brows, as if to say, Yes, and?
    "You ever heard of Rogers' Syndrome?"
    I managed not to trip when my thoughts went into a momentary whirl of panic. "Yes, actually." I had thought they'd been making it up, though.
    "It just doesn't matter," he said quietly.
    "What doesn't matter?" I shook myself out of it. The whole idea of some complete stranger unburdening himself to me was an alien one, given that normally I don't talk to much of anyone, even at home. But if talking about it would help I figured I might as well listen. No sense being rude, and he seemed so depressed.
    "I always wanted to be able to draw. I mean, I wasn't particularly good at it, y'know, stick figures and stuff, so I followed other careers, and then... Electrochemical accident. Oops." A bitter, brittle smile. "Incomplete variant transference. I wonder what would have happened. But... my arm is tied directly in to my visual cortex," he explained. "My reaction speed has jumped by thirty, forty times. Just with this. I can do a perfect rendering of anything I can see. It's just... that. Just a rendering."
    "Not what you wanted, huh?"
    "Who gets what they want?" he shrugged, getting some defenses back.
    I found myself sighing. "I don't know. Good question." Certainly no one I know.
    "I'm working on getting over being ashamed of it," he told me. "That's why I had to give you the...."
    "Nothing to be ashamed of," I said, somewhat puzzled. Upon reflection, I suppose my reaction, or lack of reaction, is evidence of how the past year has changed the way I think. My definition of baseline normality has definitely shifted a few degrees.
    "You guys in Boston must love your variant team."
    "Oh, they're okay. They have their flaws." I had to suppress a smile.
    "Let me tell you something, Tulsa was not exactly variant-friendly."
    "I can imagine. So, why are you here, then?" I asked cautiously; I hadn't seen any reason to think this place was all that "friendly" as he put it.
    "Had to go somewhere," he shrugged. "There's a couple of clinics that handle this sort of stuff. I couldn't stay with my wife... anymore.... just wouldn't have worked out, in Tulsa, and she wasn't willing to come here. The clinics have a mail service, talk with other people who are undergoing the same problems you're undergoing."
    "M-hm."
    "There's a house on the island, three or four of us got together and bought it."
    "Here?"
    "Yeah."
    "That's interesting."
    "We try and keep out of the way. It was better before the second B&B opened up."
    "Too many people now?"
    He made an iffy gesture. "Too much... motion. The people on the island, other than the kids, they just don't care. We're in the middle of nowhere, we don't bug anybody." After a silent moment he added, "Nahal has it worst."
    "Who?"
    "The kid. Down on the ferry."
    "Looked kind of young for it," I remarked.
    "Well, it's not just that. He's South African. Someone smuggled him out of the country before he was... exterminated. His parents abandoned him, aid workers got him out, he ended up at a clinic and they sent him here. He's a total cultural fish out of water, and it doesn't help that his body defies gravity. Kind of. I mean, this is bad enough," he looked at his hand, "but I was 31, and you know, you can deal."
    "Yeah, it's a little easier at that age," I agreed. Though kids can be flexible, I guess.
    "He's six." More quiet. "I don't know why I'm laying all this all you," he sighed apologetically.
    "No, that's fine," I reassured him.
    "Just... most of the transients freak when they see us."
    "Nothing freaks me out," I told him with a bit of a smile.
    He chuckled and held out his hand for me to shake. "Marshall Murphy."
    "Sasha Banks. Pleased to meet you."
    "A pleasure. What do you do for a living, Sasha?"
    "I fly planes." Close enough.
    "Ever seen a UFO?"
    "Not in person."
    "Fair enough."
    "One hears stories." I hesitated, wondering if I should say anything at all about it. "I don't know, it seems like there's places you could put that to use," glancing at his hand. "Any police department in the country would be happy to have you around." Crime scenes, suspect sketches, courtrooms....
    "The arm goes through spasms every once in a while," he said evenly. "I lose control of it for forty-five, fifty minutes at a time. They happen on and off. It's actually in its slow phase right now, winter is better. It's harder during the summer. Temperature, I guess, something to do with the whole lizard thing."
    "Makes sense, I suppose."
    "Maybe police departments would be happy to have me, but you get tired of being stared at, y'know? And it would be one thing if, y'know, if it had finished," he said with a little not-laugh. "If I could do something with it. Maybe I'd even look normal, if it had finished." He laughed, or didn't laugh, again. "I'm not one to complain, Lisa has it worse than I do."
    Or you might be all red and green scaled. I gave him a considering glance, wondering what the result would have looked like. "Lisa?"
    "My would-be second wife."
    "Oh."
    "Coffee?" he offered his thermos.
    "Sure."

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