His head in his hands, with his jeans pulled up but still no shirt on. It wasn’t the fact that he had just removed his heavy helmet and shook out his shoulder-length blond hair in the freshness of the ocean breeze, but that his turtleneck, curled in a ball at his feet, was totally drenched with sweat. His long face was quite solemn and his big ears hung dejectedly on rusty hinges. Gaping holes in the seam of his closed mouth ran with salty saliva and and the distant singing spun through his head… Adam vomited up his lunch onto the grubby sidewalk. Now dressed in fawn slacks and blue polo shirt, totally drenched with sweat, Mr Santorum proceeded to crawl onto the steel grating that covered the basement window wells, in the middle of the night, and scrape the vomit into the gravel below. “You looked like you were possessed by a demon,” Phineas says.

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