Binyamin read somewhere as a kid that you can’t touch the tips of two pencils together; he kept trying until his knuckles were stippled with accidental graphite tattoos. His parents would have freaked out about tetanus if they’d noticed. He switched to ballpoint pens.

Because his life is a straightforward progression of metaphors, Binyamin becomes a mediator, talking people into meeting at the tiniest point imaginable: common ground. He likes his job and he’s good at it. The parties involved always address him as if he’s the translator, aching with pride wounds. Binyamin coaxes them together, a child forever unbreaking homes.