Neil talks to himself. After years on the run and with no chance to make friends, especially after Mary’s death, it became his only way to maintain some semblance of social interaction, without the risk of saying too much. Interestingly, he doesn’t just talk; he reacts, argues, works through whatever’s bothering him, and, somehow, even gets answers. (From himself, of course. Or maybe from an imaginary conversation partner.) When he feels safe, he gestures vividly as he speaks. More often, though, the need to stay quiet reduces these conversations to silent mouth movements and exaggerated expressions, careful not to let his voice carry. From the outside, it looks both ridiculous and faintly unsettling — especially when the Foxes catch him at it. One day, while making himself something to eat, he forgets where he is and slips back into one of his internal debates. Andrew, who has a habit of entering rooms far too quietly, has been standing in the doorway for a good fifteen seconds, leaning against the frame and watching Neil’s barely audible murmurs and animated reactions. Neil notices him and stops short, wondering how much Andrew saw. Andrew, meanwhile, pushes himself off the doorframe and walks in with complete indifference. “Go on,” he says. “Don’t mind me. I’m not interrupting any of you.” Then he calmly starts making his coffee, adding five spoonfuls of sugar.
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