"Nobody knows where it is," Avery said matter-of-factly. He'd resumed eating, because he didn't have that skin-crawling sensation that he usually experienced when he thought somebody was watching him eat. She couldn't see him, and in his case he didn't think that was a negative. "It's about 200 miles southwest of New Orleans, maybe more. Middle of nowhere." He laughed softly at her description; it sounded like a light exhale of air more than anything. "You described my hometown, right there." He happened to love the swamps, but he knew a lot of people would consider them the epitome of creepy.
A lot of people he met ended up thinking Avery was shy, and that wasn't really the case. He was just quiet and awkward. He could talk as well as anyone when he wanted to. He hadn't been sure at first, but Hannah was actually okay. She'd always say exactly what she felt, and a person would always know where they stood with her. He had to respect that.
"I don't really abbreviate," he said, amused by the mental images evoked by what she'd said. "If anything I'd give it more syllables. Southerners do that." He'd finished his sandwich, and he felt better both physically and mentally, the unease he'd felt at the party fading somewhat. "Don't punch people either. Usually," he had to add as he thought of Vernon Johnson. If anyone had ever had a broken nose coming, it was that guy.