#8

As he was starting on his third satsuma, he suddenly decided that, if he could remove its peel entirely in one single spiral of plucked flesh, then everything would work out how he wanted it to. He used to do that all the time as a child: gauge when a menial task or everyday happening could be made sufficiently complex and arduous that it might form the cosmic mirror image of some desired benefit. A benefit that otherwise was logically out of his reach.

When they were both eight, he and his sister shared her secret, that if one stood on any of the cracks in the pavement between school and home, one was eaten immediately by bears. But Nigel would base his games on positive outcomes instead: if he trod on the stones and not the gaps between them then he'd get full marks on a test, or Dad would come home, or there'd be more pocket money. So, with the room already stinking of orange, gingerly, precisely, holding his breath—he began to peel.