I sigh. “I have no problem assisting with manual labor, Kishimoto. In fact, I would’ve been happy to do so earlier.”
“Great, well, that’s what we like to hear.” Kenji slaps me on the back, and I grit my teeth to keep from killing him.
“All right,” he says. “So, I’m not going to torture you with any more unknowns, because I don’t think you actually like surprises. I also think you’re probably the kind of guy who likes to be able to pre-visualize stuff—helps manage the anxiety of not knowing things—so I’m going to walk you through this step-by-step. Sound good?”
I come to a sudden stop, staring at Kenji like I’ve never seen him before. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“How did you know that I don’t like surprises?”
“Bro, you’re forgetting that I watched you have an actual panic attack.” He taps his head. “I know some things, okay?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Okay, well”—he clears his throat—“there’s also this doctor we’re working with now—one of the ladies leading the exit evaluations for the asylum residents—and she’s, like, crazy smart. She’s got all kinds of interesting things to say about these patients, and everything they’ve been through. Anyway, you should talk to her. We had a patient who was cleared—healthy, fine, totally normal—to be returned to their relatives, but this dude couldn’t get on a plane without having a major panic attack. The doctor was explaining to Sam that, for some people, getting on a plane is terrifying because they have to be able to trust the pilot to control the plane—and some people just can’t trust like that. They can’t cede control. Anyway, it made me think of you.”
I deeply loathe this comparison, and I tell him as much. “I am perfectly capable of getting on planes,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know, but—you know what I mean, right? Generally?”
“No.”
Kenji sighs. “I’m just saying that I think it probably helps you to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You like being in control. You don’t like not knowing things. You probably like to imagine things in your head before they happen.”
“You had a single conversation with a doctor and now you think you’re capable of psychoanalyzing me?”
“I’m not—” Kenji throws up his arms. “You know what, whatever. Let’s go. Winston’s waiting.”
“Wait.”
Kenji looks up at me, irritation written all over his features. “What?”
“There might be a small grain of truth in what you said. A very, very small grain.”
“I knew it,” he says, pointing at me. “I told her, too, I was like, wow, you should really talk to this one guy we know, he could use a lot of help working through some—”
“You didn’t.” A muscle jumps in my jaw. “Tell me you didn’t actually say that to her.”
“I did too say that to her. She was a smart lady, and I think she might have some really interesting things to say to you. She was talking about some of these inmates and the problems they were facing and I was like, oh my God, you could be describing Warner right now.”
“I see,” I say, and nod. “I should just kill you here, shouldn’t I? In my own house. On my wedding day. It could be your gift to me.”
“This, right here!” He throws out his arms. “This is a perfect example! You don’t know how to problem solve without resorting to murder! How do you not see this as an issue?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man, you really might want to consider—”
I take a sharp breath, staring up at the ceiling. “For the love of God, Kishimoto. Where is Winston, and what does he want with me?”
“Did someone say my name?” Winston pops his head out of a door in the corridor ahead. “Come on in. I’m all ready for you.”
I shoot Kenji a scathing look before retreating down the hall, peering into the new room with some concern. It appears to be some kind of a bedroom, though it’s in desperate need of work. And paint. Winston has set up what appears to be a small command center—a dingy folding table displaying an artfully arranged selection of ties, bow ties, cuff links, and socks. I stare at it, beginning to understand, but I’m distracted by a strange, pungent odor that only seems to strengthen the longer I stand here.
“What on earth is that smell?” I ask, frowning at the old wood paneling.