[No one tell Henry Creel about Michael spewing spiders from his mouth. He might not ever leave him alone.

Though his face was not fully disapproving before, just a faint shadow etched across the line of his brow, Henry's features soften when she sounds amiable to the request that he relocate the spider instead. For him, that's about a task as easy as breathing, and he nods.

He turns his body at just the right angle to lean in, assessing how to approach the arachnid. It isn't a very large one, but in some ways, that makes it more difficult.]

I've had an affinity for spiders ever since I was young. When I was twelve...

[Ah, here. His hands draw closer to the little spider, cupped and slow.]

I used to collect them from underneath the floorboards of my home, and keep them in glass jars for a short while.