.
 
 It wasn't a lie and I didn't need to have Uncle
 
 Jean pointed out to me. He hadn't changed very much from the young man in the photos, and he was, as Lyle had described, the best-dressed patient in the cafeteria, coming to lunch in a light blue seersucker sports jacket and matching slacks, a white shirt with a blue cravat, and spotless white deck shoes. His golden brown hair was neatly trimmed and brushed back on the sides. I could see that he still had his trim figure. He looked like someone on vacation who had stopped by to visit a sick relative. He ate mechanically and gazed around the cafeteria with little or no interest.
 
 "There he is," Lyle said, nodding in Uncle Jean's direction.
 
 "I know." My heart began to tap a rapid beat on
 
 the inside of my chest.
 
 "As you see, despite his problem, whatever that
 
 may be," Lyle said dryly, "he remains very concerned
 
 about his appearance. You should see his room, how
 
 neatly he keeps everything, too. In the beginning, I
 
 thought he had a cleanliness fetish or something. If
 
 you touch anything in his room, he'll go to it and make sure you didn't smudge it or move it an iota of
 
 an inch out of place.
 
 "I'm practically the only one he permits in his
 
 room," Lyle added proudly. "He doesn't talk to me as
 
 such. He doesn't speak to anyone, but he tolerates me
 
 at least. If someone else sits at that table, he'll create a
 
 stir."
 
 "What will he do?" I asked.
 
 "He might start beating a spoon on his plate or
 
 he might just scream this horrid, beastlike sound until
 
 one of the attendants comes over and moves him or
 
 the other person away," Lyle explained.
 
 "Maybe I shouldn't go near him," I said
 
 fearfully.
 
 "Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you should.
 
 Don't ask me to decide for you, but if you want me to,
 
 I'll tell him who you are at least."
 
 "He might recognize me," I said.
 
 "I thought he never saw you."