Neil bopped down the sidewalk listening to the song in his head. He moved forward to the beat, swaying in time, snapping his fingers, and twirling every now and then to avoid a fellow pedestrian who seemed disinclined to move out of the way. He was dancing, really, and dancing was the thing that made him feel most alive.

Neil wasn’t always a dancer, but he was always fascinated with music, rhythm, the beat of the drum, and when he was six he started moving to the music. Any music he heard on the radio, or if someone played a record, or even in the elevator, he danced to the music whether it was danceable or not.

People thought that he was happy. His life seemed enviable, as any life might seem if it’s not as familiar to you as your own. But Neil had a problem not of his own making, a problem that he thought would eat him alive if he stopped dancing. So he kept dancing, and hoped his problem would stay hidden, and that people would smile when they saw him dancing; smiling in that envious way people have when they see someone who seems momentarily happy, happier than they are, more alive than they are.

And Neil was right. Nobody could see what was troubling him, how his life really was, while he was dancing.