He passed by her and, with a smile she couldn't read, briefly rested his hand against her shoulder.  One finger brushed against her skin and every nerve flared into life at that touch.  If she'd been in some level of pain for months, now she was in whatever was the opposite of endless, creeping discomfort that no potion could eradicate.  Skin to skin contact was immeasurably better than his hand on her clothing.  Was this soaring high why people took drugs?  What would it be like if she touched him?  What would it be liked if she - . 