The Librarian was bending forwards on his chair with his arms crossed over his stomach, rubbing his hands up and down his upper arms as if he had a chill. He was murmuring to himself. Whispering. Agitated.
Sam took a lightning-quick glance at the rest of the group. The Artist appeared worried. The Lost Girl was shaking her head and pushing back her chair. The Boxer and the Athlete were trading looks as if asking one another if they should stand up and intervene.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told them, calmly raising a hand in the air.
The Librarian whined and raked his nails down his jumper, clawing at the material. His mouth drooped.
‘You’re safe here,’ Sam told him. ‘You have nothing to fear.’
But the Librarian just moaned and shook his head in a distressed and agonized way, as if Sam was missing something crucial, and then he reached a hand up under the sleeve of his sweater and slowly removed a pair of scissors.