Joe moaned; he couldn't hear Frank's screams over the banging that resounded off the walls. He turned one way, then the next, struggling to follow the sound of his brother's voice.

            "Joe?"

            The younger Hardy spun around; was that him? It couldn't be, Frank was still screaming…

            "Joe? Are you in there?"

            Joe sat straight up, his heart pounding, soaked, as always, in cold sweat. Where was he? What time was it?

            He glanced at his wristwatch; noon. Shit. He'd missed a class.

            "Joe, please. Answer me."

            The door. Someone was knocking on the door. Right. Answer it. Act sane.

            The younger Hardy crossed the room to find Phil Cohen on the other side.

            "Hi," the boy smiled awkwardly, then frowned at his friend's appearance. "Joe, what's wrong?"

            Joe rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Nothing. A nightmare. Nothing big."

            "You look awful."

            "Thanks."

            "I'm sorry. But you do. Your weight…Joe, have you been eating?"

            Joe jumped, then stared down at his body. His once tight t-shirt hung off of him, covering the bagginess of his pants. He hadn't been eating, not regularly, not meals. He hadn't even realized he'd lost weight.

            Phil was frowning at him, but Joe recognized the look in his eyes: concern.

            Everyone has too much of it for me nowadays.

            "What do you want?" he asked harshly, abruptly. Phil shifted uncomfortably.

            "Just to know if how you're doing. It's been awhile."

            "You should have called."

            "You never pick up the phone. You never return my calls."

            "I'm busy."

            Phil sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry. I've been worried. Callie…told us."

            "Told you what?" Joe demanded.

            His friend looked awkwardly down the halls, conscious of students listening, eager to catch a glimpse of the crazy boy in single eight.

            "Listen, can I come in? Let's just talk for a few minutes."

            Joe stepped silently aside and let him pass, then shut the door firmly behind him, blocking the onlookers.

            "Sorry about the mess," he mumbled, stepping over the piles of dirty clothes—he never did laundry anymore—books and papers.

            "Don't worry. Mine's worse."

            "Right. How's Michigan U?"

            "All right. A little difficult."

            "What's your major?"

            "Computer science."

            Joe sighed. "You were always so ambitious."

            Phil frowned and sat slowly on the edge of Joe's bed. The younger Hardy fought the urge to move away.

            "So were you."

            Joe nodded vaguely and turned away to stare out the window.

            "So why are you here?"

            Phil swallowed and took a deep breath. "Van and Callie told us you…hurt yourself."

            Vanessa?

            "Vanessa knows?" Joe almost whispered.

            "Yeah. Your Mom told her."

            "Godamnit…"

            "Joe, we're worried. That's all. I just wanted to know if you were okay. How you're doing. You never talk to us anymore."

            "I've been busy."

            "Bull."

            Joe glared at his friend. "Who are you to judge me? You're never around."

            "I know. I'm sorry for that. I wish I had been. But you also never pick up the phone, or write."

            "I told you…"

            "You're busy. Sure."

            Joe fell silent, growing angry at his friend's words, knowing they were true. Phil picked awkwardly at the stained bedspread, uncomfortable in the silence. Joe could feel what he wanted to say, knew what was coming before his friend opened his mouth.

            "Joe, I know you miss your brother…"

            "I don't want to talk about Frank," Joe snapped. Phil shut his mouth, but only for a moment.

            "Why not?"

            Joe turned, startled. "What?"

            "Why not?"

            "Because…I just don't."

            "I know you miss him…"

            "Stop!"

            "Joe, we all do."

            "I don't want to hear it," the younger Hardy hissed.

            "You're not alone. We all want him back. But hurting yourself isn't the answer. It won't give him back…"

            Joe rose quickly. "Are you done? Because I have things to do."

            Phil stared him down. Joe shifted uncomfortably.

            "He was one of my best friends. I miss him Joe. A lot. I want to help you. Will you let me?"

            The younger Hardy returned his stare.

            "You should go," he said quietly, opening the door. "I want you to go."

            Phil rose, clearly distressed. "Come hang out with us one night."

            "I'm busy."

            "Make some time."

            "I can't. I have make-up work."

            Phil moved slowly toward the door, then hesitated and turned to his friend.

"We miss you too."

            Joe looked down at the white tiles on the floor, the few visible beneath the carpet of filth he was too sad to clean. 

            "You should go," he repeated.

            Phil reached out and squeezed his younger friend's shoulder.

            "Hang in there, buddy. We're rooting for you."

            Joe just nodded and eagerly closed the door behind him. Phil didn't understand. No one understood.

            You don't either.

            "Frank?" he asked softly, hoping desperately for an answer from his brother. But his only answer was the silence of his room.