Shipiro said almost mechanically. He stared skeptically from his heavy birch desk to the lanky teenager sprawled across the dark brown leather sofa. He’d been eyeing him for half an hour, clicking his teeth as the youth recanted a story about whale guts. Dr. Shipiro removed his glasses and rubbed his brow. Tiny lines of stress wrinkled across his pale skin. He huffed and ran his fingers through his graying brown hair. He had the appearance of a man who’d known former glory, but had been robbed by time. His narrow nose bore marks from years of wearing glasses. His slender arms, which were surely formidable weapons at one point, looked weak and fragile as he stretched and rolled up the sleeves of his white button up. His office was crammed with old furniture and ancient books covered in dust. Like the man that owned it, there was a hidden splendor underneath the layers of neglect. A shadow of a past life, before the burdens of others had sucked it dry.
