Malachi’s fresh cut hair tugged strange. The back of his neck both itched from the flecks of shorn hair and burned from the rub of an electric razor. He had to get a new shirt or find a bathroom to shake out the current one. For now he crammed his arms into a too small white jacket and held his shoulders aloft in an attempt to shorten his arms. That choreography reduced the gap between his wrists and the cuffs of the borrowed jacket but it made him like as if he had a stick up his ass. He would just stand at the back of the photograph.