382. She curled her fingers underneath her hand before she started chewing her fingernails. I asked her what was wrong. She explained: Reading the post made her nervous, as if someone had seen into her unspoken life. She looks at the number on the palm of her hand. Then she dials. Her British accent tossed my brain over like flap jacks on a scout's griddle; my tongue could find no words. I just smiled at her, hoping to break the tension. She could only give a little shrug.