They say communication is the key.

Despite appearances, Mike is not actually that confrontational a person. Not in certain contexts, anyway, so rather than ask Hobbes head-on what's eating him, he's keeping his own distance. Not that it's hard; part of the manifestation of... whatever this is, is that Hobbes is gone a lot.

He figures it'll come out when the pressure builds enough, or the kid (he can't quite lose the word) will get over it. In the meantime he has things he needs to be doing. His canoe is leaking. Not a lot, but enough to make any extended travel difficult. He doesn't know much about patching boats but hands-on learning is best in his experience.

It's extraordinarily hot on the beach. The weather's always been warm here, but since the change in the Island it's been unusually humid and sticky. He's shirtless and in khaki shorts, and the sweat is running down his face in long trickles and making his hands slippery. He loses hold of his knife for an instant and gives his thumb a good slice. He jerks it up to his mouth, sucking on it and cursing richly.

It feels so much easier to blame it all on Hobbes, for the moment.