I get no answer to my question, just a grunt. I scrunch my eyebrows at the unexpected sound; Lee is nota grunter. He’s happy and talkative and easy-going, and even if he’s had a fight with whatever girlfriend he’s with at the moment, he never takes it out on me. Something must have happened.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Again, no answer. Instead, he wanders into the living room, and a first glance at him reveals nothing but a face deep in thought and his brown wavy hair that was smooth and perfect when he left looks like it’s exploded around his head, as though he put his fingers into a wall socket.
He sinks onto the couch next to me without a glance in my direction or a single word. He just keeps his gaze trained at the frozen image of Clint Eastwood’s face on the big-screen TV mounted on the wall.
“Hey.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “You okay?”