He simply couldn’t be in one place, couldn’t look at two consecutive sunrises from the same patch of ground, couldn’t lay his head down on the same pillow. He couldn’t bear it.
They went to quiet places: woods and lakes, streams bubbling over mossy banks, mountain tops where you could almost reach up and touch the stars. They stayed in crofts and cabins, and once in a grass hut. She knew that he was running away from himself, racing away from the newness of his body, hormones and sensory perception, the single heart beat and, oh-my-god, the ridiculous neurotransmitters.
She lay awake in the dark of night, listening to the sound of his running, running, running.