Noel rappelled down the narrow ladder and settled opposite me. He whipped out a pocket knife and proceeded to carve up an apple with disturbing precision. A few passengers assembled to collectively gaze at this display of skill with keen interest, then scrutinized Noel as he ate his apple – the lines of his face, so straight his expression always verged on insolence, the slim surgeon fingers, the fit lean body. They studied his Northface backpack and Timberland-clad feet, searching for clues to his efficiency. What are they looking at, Noel grumbled. He didn't like making a spectacle of himself. He hated mistakes in general, and hated making them in particular, especially in public, and the care that he lavished on preventing them sharply contrasted with my ability to shrug off mine. I wondered, as another flash of insight seared through me, if I was a potentially huge mistake he was determined not to make?