To the casual viewer, John Harrington was a tall, gawky, colorless young man with buckteeth and thick glasses. To the intense scrutinizer, the writer, the painter of people, he looked pretty much that way too.

Guys tended to purposely overlook him. Women mostly didn't see or hear him. One time, a teenager on a skateboard zipped right through him and didn't even feel him on her skin. He wasn't hurt; there really was no contact; more like two clouds merging and parting according to how they were blown by the wind.

John was aware of it though. He went home and looked in a mirror to make sure he was there.