Paul decided it was time to go home when he realized he'd been sweating for the past hour under three shirts, two sweaters, and a winter coat in August. It wasn't the warmth he craved; it was the crushing pressure around his ribcage, the best approximation of a hug he could find. Every time he visited his parents, he'd have to learn how to tolerate people again by depriving himself of human contact until the desperation for company finally outranked his aversion to it. And he stank to high heaven and needed a proper haircut. Again. It was never a triumphant homecoming, but at least it was one.