This could very possibly be the end. Robin had explicit knowledge of what it looked like; he'd seen it twice. A sanctuary, a room full of flowers. The smell of lilies and the long silence. A parade of apologetic casseroles from all manner of directions and people Robin might have heard of if he'd been around more often. Friends of the family. Friends of his father. Friends Robin hadn't heard from since the funeral. Not that he remembered them precisely. The day had been a blur—a ballroom with no features, a series of impressions strung together at a foggy distance. Chairs. A framed photo he couldn't look at. A corridor of faces, eyes, hands reaching out to press commiserations in his palm. We're so sorry for your loss, Robin. He had nodded, taking in the shapeless distortion, the garbled drone of repeating sympathies.

But chin up, Robin.

Things will get better.

Chin up.

He understood the expression better now. Chin up, or he'd breathe in water. Chin up in the aimless paddling in a dark ocean. But right now, sitting at the sky-bar at La Plaisir, he couldn't quite remember why he didn't just let himself sink into the soundless deep, where the noise of the surface wouldn't follow him down.

But still, chin up.

Keep moving.

It'll get better.

Will it? said the little creature.

It had to.

That's what everyone had been telling him. Not that it's a competition, but wouldn't it be nice to do better? To be better? Should be easy enough in the land of self-improvement. Veneers, salons, spray tans. They promised things. Make your eye bags designer! Take ten years off your face! (Did he really want to look fifteen again?) Become the Better You. Become—become Scott Tracy, another roided-out jockstrap with accolades to spare. Become John. Take the orange pill and ride the rush, conquer Academia. Reread Paradise Lost in a fit of productivity. Hell, read any of the other books he'd picked up and abandoned this year. Like all the other hobbies he'd promised to take up one day, like arms at the end of a peace accord. Origami. Tabeletop games. The long-awaited foray into niche economic philosophies.

The hope flickered bravely.

It didn't matter, did it?

'Good intentions' didn't usually mean 'follow through.'

"It's fine," said Robin to the empty bar counter. "Or it will be fine."

When?

Next week, Dad. Tune in again next week for the regularly scheduled programming, when your only child might be incrementally less disappointing. Duncan and Fanny would be gearing for war, offsetting the boss they'd had the misfortune to inherit. And as for the hole in Robin's chest—it was very nearly healed, wasn't it? See? Robin put a hand to his stomach. Good as new. Hardly anyone could tell this year had been a slow gutting.

He should be back to his old self by now. Or at least back to the newer version of his old self. Some leniency had been given after the funeral—a few days to sort out his thoughts—he's only just arrived back from overseas, for God's sake. But that was a long time ago, and even mercy had its limits. Robin should be back to form, like Duncan—fighting fit!—the same impossible reserves of vigor, the same unflappable vim.

"Robin?"

Robin turned at the sound of his name, and it registered almost instantly that Scott Tracy was standing in the hotel bar, appearing stage left and underdressed for the five-star ambiance. Was it surprising? Should Robin be surprised? Maybe it was the fine print in a contract he hadn't read: this was the price of living in LA, a city murmuring with the employees of the other team. Never shall Robin Locke find himself outside the reach of the Tracy domain.

"Great Scott," said Robin, elegantly swirling the last of his drink around his glass and slipping back into his English accent as if it had never been abandoned, a cloying imitation of Uncle Edwin's crisp tones. "And what brings you to these parts, young man?"

"We need to talk."

"I'd prefer another round of fisticuffs, wouldn't you? Tough it out, man to man? I'm not averse to a civil match, but please—this time—not the face. Why would you go for the face? You wouldn't want that kind of evidence walking around. You need the people on your side, Scott, and this—" Robin touched his eye, "this just isn't a good look for you. Next time, think below the neck," he held a hand at his throat, "think soft tissue damage. And what do you do after you kick my ass? You've got to have a plan. I'd go for the classics, personally. School locker. Storage closet. Trash can? Ever popular, easily accessible, hours of fun for the whole family. As we all know, nothing quite comes close to that first rush of being stuffed into yesterday's leftovers."

Scott frowned. Or maybe just the image of Scott frowned, because he might not be there at all—he might be imaginary, another symptom of the daily fugue, the frosted-glass vision of Robin's current existence; another side effect of the diurnal cocktail of coffee and aspirin. The finest, legally available stimulants careening through his bloodstream. But why be so coy about the details, Robin? This wasn't the first time he'd seen something that wasn't there. Maybe he'd taken something on the way here, in the privacy of the backseat, tapped out an anonymous powder on the back of his hand and inhaled: a little pick-me-up, a trifling amount of synthetics to calm the nerves, invigorate the senses.

Insufflation, said the little creature, holding a pointer to a blackboard with the word written across it. The act of dragging uppers deep into the soul.

The image of Scott took a step forward, pulling something out of its pocket, setting it on the counter. A small, black rectangle. A thumb drive. "I get that you like to fuck people over, but it ends here, all right?"

"Ends?"

"Before we get legal involved."

"Legal?"

"Yes, legal. The thing you'd rather avoid after the last couple of weeks you've been having." Scott shrugged, unconcerned. "But if you want hell on earth, we're happy to oblige."

Robin believed him, as much as one could believe a figment of the imagination. "No, I don't imagine Duncan would like that."

Duncan was already preparing an offense, whether or not it would be needed. Robin could see him at his desk, bent over the big photo albums, weighing up the contenders for the perfect picture, the best encapsulation of everything anyone should remember about the Locke name. Robin didn't feel the usual revulsion at the plan. He couldn't always 'see the big picture' like he was supposed to. The holistic vision of the company image—the Before and After. But he understood it now; the universe was opening up the secrets long held back. Why had he ever protested? It was all so necessary. Just a few family pictures sacrificed for mass consumption. Pictures, like lodestars to guide Opinion in the right direction, and Public Approval the wind to fill the sails of enterprise. Robin should be next to Duncan now, leaning over his shoulder to help him decide. That one, Duncan, Robin could point out. Kensington Gardens. Mom in her favorite dress, eggshell blue, and Dad in something casual, a light suit, no tie, his big hands resting on Robin's shoulders, still the unspoiled innocent, still summer-blond and grinning. The world hadn't ended for him yet.

A bit on the nose, Duncan might say, but that's what we want, isn't it? Irrefutable proof of heritage, a nod to tradition when tradition was important. People looked to what came before: the perfect family. Before things fell apart. Before Eton. Before the lights had dimmed over the bright and the beautiful. Yes, that's the ticket, Robin. That picture. Print it. Set it free into the world to right the wrong, to balance the scale that weighed and found him wanting.

"It would be better for all parties involved if we just end it here." Scott's voice, disembodied, because the lights were fading around the stage. There was no Scott. There were no Tracys, no bar, no LA. "You came, you saw, you lost. You fucked with John; we fucked with you. We're even. So take your thumb drive back. We are no longer in possession of Locke Labs property."

Robin couldn't remember reaching for the thumb drive, but his hands closed over it nonetheless—a prop, a solid piece of make-believe.

"Agreed?"

"John's free now." Robin slipped the thumb drive into his pocket. "He can use those long legs to rejoin his herd on the savannah."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"So, why did you do it?"

Why? Why did he do anything these days? Why did he get up? Or go to work? Or make small talk with the doorman? "Do what?"

"Tell the press. You didn't have to be such a dick about it."

All the weeks impacted one over the other, a silent collision of days. "I'm not a good person." It sounded so simple when he said it out loud. Of course. The equal and opposite reaction to the one who'd gone before. The great Richard Locke. Dad, waiting at airport arrivals, wrapping his arms around Robin before he could even apologize—badly, insincerely—Dad was already pulling him into a hug and grabbing his bag and talking about dinner, because nothing sensible was ever said on an empty stomach.

"But it wasn't much of a story, was it?" said Robin. "Big Nerd Tries Extra Hard to Get Through College. Yeah, that'll really move some papers." He turned in his chair, facing the empty stage, the unfilled audience. "Here's the better story, ladies and gentlemen: I nearly OD'd on my father's birthday. I came home to surprise him—God knows why I thought that would be a good idea. A whole house full of people to watch me take something and drink something and pass out on the bathroom floor. Suffice to say the festivities were over; the party was immediately adjourned." He held up his hands, hushing the questions hanging in the air. "No, it wasn't the first time. There are trial runs for this sort of thing, you know. Dress rehearsals."

Before the big finale, the little creature piped up, happy to contribute.

"Yes, exactly. One doesn't just make life-altering decisions off the cuff. First one makes attempts. As many as possible, preferably, and always know your cue when you've overstayed your welcome. Better to shuffle off this mortal coil with some dignity intact."

Is that so?

"Absolutely. You should write that down."

I will, the little creature promised.

"He had all these ideas about how things would be when we got back to LA. Our new life. Stay safe, Robin, he'd tell me. Be good. Make new friends." The words had been so light back then, so easy to believe. "Because that's what they teach you in rehab. Make goals. Keep it simple. And we did. For ten months, and then—well, you know the story."

The little creature hung its head. Yes, a surprising turn of events.

The static crackled in Robin's skull, lightning through the dim rafters of his brain. "Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you Richard Locke will be unable to join us tonight. He's taken quite ill with a single-vehicle collision on the 101. A moment of silence for his untimely departure."

Silence, yes, the same that had been slathered over the days in abundance, equally embracing and suffocating. The weeks were still compounding around Robin, layering over each other—the funeral had been a year ago and yesterday and tomorrow—and Dad, who'd always been there—

Do you miss him? said the little creature.

"Miss him? I wish it had been me in the car." The confession, waiting all this time in the wings, took the stage, sparked through Robin, zipping through the fibrotic tissues of his existence. "It would have made things better, I think. More balanced. Or at the very least more logical, closer to the Classic Narrative: the good lives on and the bad just...goes away."

The last light above the stage was unrelenting, the hard brightness like a syringe finding the soft skin in his arm, the crook of his elbow—the plunger pressed down into the barrel—the intravenous glow of revelation unfolded over him, a warm, analgesic wave of assurance: this was the Narrative as it was meant to be, the great balancing for what he'd done: Robin, like the insects caught and deadened with alcohol and skewered through the chest to the mounting board—he was fated to live like this always, pinned to his desk, with Duncan at his side, he too destined to make decisions and put out fires and clean up messes far into a bleak and soundless future. An endless toiling for little reward.

"I shouldn't have come back, should I?"

Mmm, agreed the little creature.

But it wasn't too late to amend the error, was it? Robin just had to revisit the old plans. Lift the phone, dial the number. Hello? Is this Carruthers Funeral Home? Yes, I'd like to make a reservation for one. As soon as possible. Your finest coffin, if you please. The Locke family plot. No, a simple ceremony will do. I'm not expecting any attendees. Gravestone? Oh, I hadn't given it much thought. No, no, let me have a think. Nothing too garish for the font, of course. Something classic. Times New Roman. Century Schoolbook. Comic Sans. He could practically hear the appropriate happy gurgle on the other end of the line. Yes, the last one was a joke. Very funny, I agree. And for the inscription? Robin Francis Locke. 2031-2056. 'He tried.' Too self-effacing, you say? How about 'he meant well'?

Robin turned back to the counter and picked up his drink. It was always nice to get to the bottom of a glass and find his sense of purpose. He knew what he had to do now, but first—a toast to good times and new beginnings. "To Robin Locke," he held up his glass, "here despite popular demand."