“Modern American culture dictated the importance of touching the hand of someone you’ve just met, however counterintuitive it seemed. Why would he want to touch someone he didn’t know?”

“The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.”

“There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares.”

“You know,” he says, “for someone who doesn’t like touching people, you keep finding ways to put your hands on me.”

“I wanted what most people wanted—love, companionship.I wanted someone to touch. I wanted someone to touch me back.I wanted someone to laugh with, someone who would laugh with me, laugh at me.I wanted someone who looked and sawme . Not my power, not my position.I wanted someone to say my name. To call out, “Merit,” when it was time to go, or when we arrived.Someone who wanted to say to someone else, with pride, “I’m here with her. With Merit.”I wanted all those things. Indivisibly.But I didn’t want them from Morgan.”

“Someone tells me I’ve been touched by Jesus, I remember.”“Not Jesus,” he said in all seriousness. “The hand of God.”