Nothingman, a batman begins/dark knight fanfic

For Jordan. I'm sorry.

Nothingman

"Caught a bolt of lightning;

Cursed the day he let it go…."

- "Nothingman", Pearl Jam

There was something stuck in the bedroom carpet. It was all he could look at. It was the only thing his brain had room for at the moment, the only thing he could make sense of with the crazy mass of spinning words and pictures and questions throwing themselves around inside his skull like angry wasps. It was all he actually knew was solid and real. He was on his knees on the floor of the master bedroom, and his hands were wet, and the room smelled like cheap booze and paint thinner and anger, and there was something grey stuck in the tan fibers of the carpet. Oh, and his wife's feet were crossing that carpet on their way out the bedroom door.

They had that way of walking that said they didn't intend to retrace their steps. And it was that way of walking – determinedly, filled with righteous anger, forward with no hint of turning – that made him start breathing and thinking and talking again. It came all at once, without any hope of being caught and shaped into something helpful, and for a moment he couldn't even understand himself.

"Jeannie, please," he finally heard himself saying to her red-painted toenails. They were chipped. There had been no time or money or energy lately to go have her pedicure redone, not to mention the fumes involved. So they were starting to chip off. The smallest toe on her right foot had no polish left at all, just the smooth pink of her natural nail. He stared at that little toe on that determinedly retreating foot for several more seconds that felt like eons before he realized he was losing it again, his brain going back into the wasps' nest. The things you notice, he would think later. The things you notice when your world is collapsing into a black hole.

Your black hole.

The black hole that wouldn't have been there but for your own pathetic weakness.

He tried again. "Jeannie…just…." He felt himself choking on his dry tongue. Just what, exactly? Just listen? Just stop? Just hear me out? …Just wait? Just don't… just watch, just say no, just do it, just dance – the wasps were buzzing at full power against his cerebral cortex, and he gritted his teeth. There was no appropriate combination of words to finish that sentence that he hadn't already tried. And she hadn't Just ANY of them because, clearly, she was in the process of walking out the door. And here he was, still on the dirty bedroom carpet, tongue tied and getting dizzy from the assertive smell of fresh paint wafting down the hall from the nursery – or, what was going to be the nursery.

Or…what would have been the nursery.

That thought wrapped cold fingers around his heart and squeezed until he forced himself up off the floor with a jerk that drew an angry pop from both knees. He lurched toward the bedroom door to follow her. Unsteady after the crawling and the tension, his left leg threatened to buckle, and he only just caught himself on the open top drawer of the chest she had recently emptied. Its contents were somewhere in the bottom of the huge green suitcase she had already tossed over the railing to the living room floor, all those little things women keep in top drawers – socks (he had helped her sort in the laundry room), bras (he had helped her snap on days she was frustrated and couldn't find the hook), panties (that he had taken her out of so many times and likely would never take her out of again). A sound a little like a whimper crawled out of his mouth, and he tossed the drawer away like it was a snake that might bite. The force of his movement threw him off balance in the other direction; as he struggled to get his feet back under him a second time, his shoes snagged on something sticking out of the closet and he landed flat on his face with a grunt.

There was a brief moment when he considered just lying there and breathing dust out of the carpet. Then he shoved himself sideways and glanced back to see the thick white something he had tripped over.

Jeannie's wedding dress lay half in, half out of the closet, the spot where his shoe had connected now in dirt-smudged tatters. The train was still partially in the box on the shelf – it had snagged on a hanger and was slowly ripping from the weight of the tulle and satin below. And covering the carpet in a scattered spray were at least a hundred sparkling white beads.

In the cool light of the crooked bedside lamp, they looked like spilled rice.

Jack and Jeannie had gotten married in June of 2004 – just long enough after college graduation for them to be stupidly sure of their job prospects, and quickly enough that the dress payments came due before their student loans. Jack would have been perfectly fine with a drive-thru chapel and a cabin in the Adirondacks, and he might have eventually talked Jeannie into it – that much money saved to pay off loans and buy a house. But Jeannie's indomitable mother had put her foot down, and their protests hadn't even been enough to ruffle her staunch, upper-middle-class feathers. Those words were more than a socioeconomic designation with that woman, Jack had always thought. In his brain they always flashed over her head like a neon sign in all caps. UPPER MIDDLE CLASS. Like it was some kind of title. And when one was so solidly UPPER MIDDLE CLASS, one had to adhere to certain rules of behavior. Like getting married to a nice boy in a nice big white dress in a nice church by a nice minister in a tie that matched your bridesmaids' (modest and tasteful) gowns. So, Mrs. MacMillan had railroaded the young couple into a neatly programmed two-colored-accented-centerpiece-and-caterer-and-stupid-flying-doves wedding in her UPPER MIDDLE CLASS church with brick exterior and one (tasteful) stained glass window. Jack could remember standing under that window the day they decorated the church – Mrs. MacMillan rolling through the aisles like a locomotive under full steam, Jeannie hurrying after her like an anxious caboose – and he could have sworn Jesus was looking down at him with something like understanding and pity. He was just heading for crucifixion once he got done praying in that glass garden; Jack was heading for life as Mrs. MacMillan's UPPER MIDDLE CLASS son-in-law. He'd spent a few minutes wondering which was worse.

Jeannie had gotten her way on one solitary item on the to-do list – the wedding colors. She had chosen green as the accent for her dad – it was his favorite color – but it was nearly overpowered by the main hue: a rich, lively royal purple, so intense in some parts of the church that it seemed to be dripping with pigment. Her mother had hated it, of course. "A bit bright, don't you think, dear?" she had said, and Jack hoped the steam he saw leaking out of her nose like a smokestack was imagined. What she had meant by that was, "Your bridesmaids look like whores, dear. Nice girls don't wear colors like that. Girls of our station. UPPER MIDDLE CLASS girls." He saw it flitting around behind her coal-colored eyes. Out loud, she simply finished with, "Why not a nice lavender, Jeannie?" But for once, Jeannie got her way.

Jack, for one, hadn't cared much about wedding colors or bridesmaids' dresses. But he did remember that one thing. Because he would never forget the way she looked at the rehearsal dinner, the night before the wedding. Wanting to get the chance to wear the color herself (and no doubt wanting to spite her mother), Jeannie had gotten a royal purple dress for the occasion. They had met for dinner in the only nice restaurant in Jeannie's tiny hometown – it had a tinkling plastic fountain at the dining room entrance and a lot of fake plants in ugly window boxes for décor, but the light was warm and golden in the sconces and it was just dim enough in the corners for shadows to dance. She had walked into the room with her bridesmaids and Jack had stopped breathing, unable to look at anything but her. The dress was rich purple velour, with a draped Grecian neckline lying in folds over her breasts and a tuck at the waist that hugged her curves, but softly. The warm yellow lights in the wall sconces lit up the darker parts of her blonde hair and made them glow like amber, and the highlights looked like liquid gold. She was looking down at the emerald teardrop necklace one of her bridesmaids had loaned her, which was sparkling beautifully against the smooth skin of her neck. And then she had looked up, and looked across the room, and met Jack's eyes with a grin. Jack had fallen in love with her all over again.

She had looked beautiful in that white wedding gown the next morning. But somehow he would always love her more as the woman from the night before. The woman in the purple dress, smiling.

Jack had to force himself not to groan as he extricated himself from the crumpled wedding dress and lurched out into the hallway. She was leaving it behind. No deep analysis of her behavior required to tell him what that meant. She had taken almost every other piece of clothing she owned and shoved them into all three suitcases, her gym bag, and her old college backpack, but the wedding dress she had left in the closet. She hadn't even tried it to see if it would fit in the bags. She hadn't even touched it. Just knocked it down on her way through the closet. It was a dress that, if sold, could have made up a few months' rent, but of course she'd sworn she'd never sell it, never even dream of it. It was for their daughter, she had said, if they had one. The first family heirloom for their burgeoning family. And she had left it lying on the floor for him to walk on.

Just like he had walked on everything else in the last few months.

He found he was getting pretty good at walking on things. Especially things that mattered. That brought a determined grimace to his newly-haggard face, and he forced himself to stand up straight and collect himself. He would just have to change. He would learn, for the first time in his life, how not to ruin things. He would learn to finally squeeze all of his father out of himself, finally, after two decades of feeling the man crawling around inside him like a parasite and tripping over all the mistakes he had been taught to make. He would change. He would do it.

But God, he would need her help. Without her, he couldn't change a light bulb, much less himself.

In the little vestibule below, that nameless no-man's-land between the living room and kitchen and front door, he could hear her moving around – taking things she wanted off the end-tables and walls, dividing the bookshelf's contents into his and hers and putting the latter into the gym bag he could hear her dragging on the floor behind her. And in between those sounds, one that was smaller but that carried far more weight – the soft, smooth tapping of her bare feet on the hardwood of the entryway. After almost three years, he knew that sound better than his own heartbeat. It was a little heavier lately than it had been – she was carrying the weight of two – but the pattern was always the same, the tap of her foot coming down and the swish of the other going forward. There was a consistency and a reliability to that sound that always warmed him and drove his nightmares away. Except tonight. Tonight that sound was taking her steadily closer to the front door, then the sidewalk, then the car, and then…. The little spot below his lower lip started quivering, like it always did when he had to hold back his vomit. He didn't know which direction she would point the car or where she would drive it. But he knew with a sick certainty that it would kill him no matter what. He was already dying a little with each of her footsteps.

Collecting himself for a second time, Jack pointed his feet toward the staircase and tried to go down. He only made it a few steps before he had to stop again, this time at the small table in the hallway corner. It was the first thing you saw when you went up the stairs – a rickety little antique thing that was covered in more pictures than it looked like it could support. Except that tonight, it looked like it could very easily support the three pictures that remained. The three pictures she hadn't taken. Jack stared for a moment in bland shock. She had left behind his graduation picture. And the picture of the two of them standing by the fountain on campus, modeling their Magna Cum Laude medals. And…. His hand shaking, Jack reached out and picked up the third photo. It was the picture of their wedding party, all the groomsmen and bridesmaids and family members standing in front of that insufferable stained glass window. She had bumped it with one of the other frames in her haste to pack them, and there was now a large crack running across the glass. Jack searched the faces frantically, a stupid look in his large brown eyes like that of a stunned animal. Most of the damage was on his family's side of the picture.

He had just managed to pick out his mother's face under the haze of the cracked glass when he felt the first tears running hot down his cheek.

If Jeannie's mother was a locomotive barreling down the tracks, then Jack's mother was one of the battered and sun-bleached railroad ties that the trains of the world thundered over without a second glance. Margaret Collins Napier (Maggie-Girl to her father, until he died of cirrhosis of the liver when she was twelve, and Mags to her high school friends) was born in 1956 and was immediately pounded by her first train – poverty. Factor in six siblings, a drunk father, and a checked-out mother, and by high school Mags was well on her way to bleached-wood status. It was easier, she had always thought, to just allow the trains to pass – too much effort was required for fighting the inevitable, and taking it lying down meant more energy left over for needful things like work, and school, and just getting along. And if you held still when the train went over, it was almost painless.

Almost.

When her son walked down the aisle in the summer of 2004, Margaret was forty-eight – and looked a very tired fifty-eight, in a rented purple suit-dress that didn't quite fit. She sat quietly in the church, her hands in her lap, and every now and then, she'd flicker an anxious glance over at the MacMillan side, who were sitting in nicely regimented ranks, pressed and polished and very staunchly UPPER MIDDLE CLASS. There were a few others in the section for Jack's family; but Margaret sat on her end of the pew by herself. It was one of the reasons for the anxious glances at her counterparts. She was afraid they might know. Or might guess. Maybe they did. All she could do was sit with demurely downcast eyes and pray that none of them were watching the parking lot.

Margaret's husband spent the ceremony outside, in the back of their worn out Chevy Caprice. He and the car toasted the happy couple with several bottles of Jim Beam until he fell asleep, right around the time the other guests were ooh-ing and aah-ing Jeannie's dress. Margaret did her best to plaster the same look of awestruck wonder on her worried face, and hoped the empty space on her left wasn't talking as loudly to everyone else as it was to her.

James Napier had always been a loud personality, even when he wasn't physically in the room. He was a loud talker, had loud footsteps, and while other people's smiles or frowns asked politely for attention, his screamed for it. He married Margaret in 1980; he was twenty-two then, two years younger than his blushing bride, whose quiet face seemed likely to be swallowed up by the magnitude of her dress and her groom. It was nothing either of them would have noticed, but in the years that followed others would look at their wedding photos and find it remarkable how overshadowed the bride was by her surroundings. Doesn't he look so charming? they would say, pointing out the daring cut of James's suit and the (naturally) loud print of his pocket kerchief and waistcoat. And those lovely flower arrangements; who did those? They would mention the quaintness of the little church (it had faux stone around the baptistery), and James's smile (Just look how charismatic he is!), and how the white sunhat Margaret wore instead of a veil was enchanting, if a bit out of fashion. (Tré retro, Mags, baby! her friend Joshua had gasped upon seeing it; really it was just a leftover from her cousin Bev's wedding in '77 and more affordable than a veil.) They looked over the wedding photos and said all these things, and maybe sometimes someone would move from the idea of the hat to Margaret's dress – and then a few of them would make note of what a pretty bride she made. But only a few.

It was that sentiment which had set the tone for their entire marriage – James in the spotlight, and Mags the demure stagehand. When their son Jack was born in February of 1982, the first two rolls of film were filled with pictures of James – James holding the baby, James standing over the bassinet, James making his son's tiny pudgy hand wave at the camera, or make a peace sign, or tell the camera to live long and prosper. It was an hour before they took baby Jack home from the hospital before someone finally took a snapshot of Margaret and her baby together.

The house baby Jack came home to was a crumbling duplex on 127th Street, across the North River from Gotham proper. They were close enough to the point that on a breezy day, a little of the garbage smell wafted over from the river, and close enough to the airport that every now and then, a take-off would rattle some of Mags' little glass angels in the curio cabinet. The nursery was decorated sparsely with Looney Tunes characters, and baby Jack went to sleep with a secondhand plush Daffy Duck every night. They didn't see much of the family next door, a single mother with four kids and a bad-tempered fluffy chihuahua. When Jack was old enough to toddle around a bit, he would sometimes play on the shared porch with the youngest of the four, a little girl named Fazaneh who at the age of two was already developing an impressive (if lopsided) afro. But that was the most interaction the Napiers had with their neighbors. Fazaneh's mother liked to keep to herself.

And so, life went on in the little house near North Point. It is said that over the years, houses tend to take on the character of their inhabitants; in the case of Margaret Napier, it seemed to be the reverse. When she wasn't at her job in the airport cafeteria, she was home, and in time she began to be more and more a part of the house itself, like a moving piece of furniture. Her skin was the color of the wallpaper, dulled to a sallow off-white by time and the smoke from James' cigarettes. Her hair matched the worn brown carpet. James wasn't home much to give her company or entertainment; between his Army Reserve training, his job at the Northside Water Treatment Plant, and his drinking buddies at Callahan's by the airport, his wife was left to hold down the fort alone well into the evening on any given day. Her single greatest source of enjoyment was watching her little son toddle around the house, his blond curls bouncing like a fluffy halo, a cherub from her curio cabinet come to life. He was her angel. He kept her sane.

And the day she sent him off to school at PS 87, the house suddenly felt like a cave – a cozy, decently furnished one, but a cave nonetheless. She had watched the school bus drive off with him as if it were a hearse; and then she had slowly retreated back into the dim, dreary duplex to watch the dust settle.

She had the same feeling again the day she'd straightened his tie outside the men's room of Jeannie's church, putting off going to stand by her escort until the last minute, looking for anything to fuss over. Ma, take it easy, hmm? he had murmured to her nervously, swatting away her hands. Then he had thought better of it and thrown his arm around her shoulders, giving her a kiss on the forehead. He told her not to worry. He told her he was getting married, not dying. He told her he and Jeannie would still be around all the time. And he promised her she could come over and babysit her eventual grandkids any time. She had nodded in response.

But when she pulled her face up from the lapel of his purple-grey pinstripe suit coat, she was still crying.

Jack let the picture drop back onto the table and dragged shaking hands across his face, trying and failing to rub away the wet streaks under his eyes. His face hurt. He didn't know if it was from the puking, the cocaine, or Eric's fist. Probably all of the above. But he felt like there was something behind his cheekbones and eyes trying to push its way out, something that wanted to shove his face out of the way and take its place. He shook himself, but the feeling didn't go away. With one more attempt to dry his cheeks, he stumbled toward the top of the stairs.

Crash.

"Dammit."

Jack stopped dead two steps down. It was the first time he'd ever heard Jeannie curse, aside from reading the occasional piece of literature out loud. It hit him like a punch to the stomach, and he felt sick all over again; but there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit, and he just put his hand over his mouth and tried not to fall down the stairs. He heard the rattle of glass or porcelain shards being shoved to the side, and then the sound of the dragging gym bag resumed. She was in the kitchen. The tap of her feet sounded different on tile than on wood. He knew that sound by heart, too. And the way the third cabinet from the left creaked when you opened it too fast, like she was doing now. Jack forced himself down the stairs, not letting himself think about what he would say when he got to her. He only thought about that sound he had heard, and about how she might accidentally cut her feet. That was something practical he could focus on. If he thought about anything else, he might scream.

"Jeannie?" he croaked as he cleared the bottom step. His voice cracked like he was twelve again. She didn't answer him. All he heard was a rattle that sounded suspiciously like her grandmother's tea set being packed into a box. Jack took a deep breath that threatened to choke him and burned the inside of his nose. Then he forcibly marched himself across the entryway and over to the kitchen door. He stopped short outside the room, toeing the line where the wood met the tile. He couldn't bring himself to go any further; the sight of her almost brought him to his knees.

Jeannie was stretching to reach something on the top shelf of the cabinet nearest the sink. She was only just tall enough normally, and her attempt to keep her stomach from pressing against the counter edge was making it hard for her to get her fingers around whatever she was grabbing for. She went up on her red painted toes, puffed and grunted, and finally got hold of it. Jack let his head drop against the doorframe when he saw what it was – her collectible Disney cup. Beauty and the Beast. Her favorite object in the whole kitchen. Of course, she wouldn't leave without that.

That sentence descended on him like an anvil in a cartoon as he realized what his brain had just said. Leave. She wouldn't leave without it.

Leaving.

God, she was leaving. That feeling behind his face surged up, and he felt his hands fly up and grasp his head compulsively, pulling at his blond curls and dragging his cheeks downward.

"Je…," he tried, choked on the word, and had to swallow before starting again. "Jeannie… God… just…." And he shut his mouth again, because he had tried that sentence upstairs and had been shut down. She was glaring at him now out of the corner of one eye as she slammed the cabinet door and picked up a porcelain cookie plate. He wiped a quivering hand across his mouth. "Jesus, Jeannie, will you let me talk for a minute?" he managed. There was dead silence in the room for a moment as Jeannie regarded him with cold green eyes. Then she dug her fingers into the plate and whirled on him.

"Yeah? Yeah, you want to talk? Tell me, Jack – what the HELL are you going to say that I'm going to give a damn about hearing?" She was breathing heavily through her nose, and her eyes flashed fire. Jack turned his face away, stung by her words. Hearing that soft mouth use those words that it was so unaccustomed to using… she might as well have slapped him. He must have grunted as he looked away, because Jeannie's eyebrows lifted in vindication. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Just… just look away. Hide your stupid face. It's what you're good at. Now get out of the kitchen so I can get something accomplished." And she turned and looked at the plate in her hands, as if waiting for him to leave before she would do anything with it. Jack's lip quivered. Retreat was probably the better option, at least until she calmed down. But he figured he'd already made enough stupid decisions in the past forty-eight hours, so one more sentence wasn't likely to make it much worse. He took a deep breath.

"Jeannie. Sweetheart, please. I just need to tell you what actually happened." He lifted his face as he said it, and was met with a glare like a sheet of ice moments before a boiling geyser broke the surface. Jeannie held his gaze like that for a cold, silent moment. Then something in her eyes snapped.

"Get out of my kitchen, you cheating son of a bitch."

And before Jack could react, she launched the porcelain cookie platter directly at his head. He had no time to duck; he barely had time to turn his face to the side as the plate hit the doorframe just beside him and shattered violently, sending glazed white shrapnel flying all over the small kitchen. One large triangular piece sliced him across the chin, and he jumped in surprise as much as in pain. He lifted a shaky hand, touched it, and hissed a little at the sting. His fingers came away bloody. Slowly, Jack lifted his eyes to meet Jeannie's.

She was standing still as a statue, the only sign of movement her heavy breathing, which was mostly obscured by her baggy clothes. Jack held back a whimper. She was wearing her oversized navy blue sweater that she loved so much, a leftover from high school with intentional bagginess that would make it perfect for maternity wear. Pregnancy was starting to look good on her, he found himself thinking absently. Of course, in his mind, she'd look good in any circumstance. But pregnancy was starting to take the edge off some of her sharper corners, and had eased her contours into something that was soft and comforting and much less like her mother. And whenever he'd woken up in the night with a moment of panic about his impending fatherhood, that look she'd taken on was enough to soothe him back into calm. But this…. Jack measured his breaths carefully. Her beauty tonight was stark, and a little frightening. And very, very distant.

He wanted to say something else. But there was no talking to that face.

Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, Jack did the only thing he could think to do. He reached over to the counter, pulled a paper towel from the roll, and pressed it to his chin. Then he dropped his eyes and turned slowly back toward the entryway. He would go sit in the living room. Maybe he could sit there and wait it out. Maybe when she had taken out her frustration by packing what she needed to pack and breaking what she needed to break, he could talk to her. Explain. Get her to understand that—

Jack froze with one foot on hardwood and one on the living room rug. At the base of the bookshelf that marked the beginning of the living area was a pile of Jeannie's bags. He must have been in a daze, because she had managed to pack more than he'd thought. But it was the bag sitting at the front of the pile that nearly derailed him. It was their big mesh laundry bag, and it was stuffed to the gills with baby supplies. Bottles. Pacifiers. Little yellow onesies with ducks on them. The quilted bedding from the crib. The collectible set of Winnie the Pooh books Jeannie's Uncle Ron had bought for her years ago. Tiny white socks. Jack felt his knees give out underneath him, and he only just managed to collapse onto the nearby ottoman instead of the floor.

She had cleaned out the nursery. Not the furniture, of course; that wouldn't fit in the PT Cruiser. But she had taken anything she could carry. Not an enormous amount – the baby shower wasn't until March – but everything that was there, she had taken. Clothes, shoes, the small stockpile of bottles and formula… all efficiently shoved into the white mesh bag that for the past two and a half years had held their dirty laundry. She was taking it all with her. And it suddenly dawned on Jack that this was so very, very much more than the potential end of his marriage. He clutched the armchair behind him for support as his stomach suddenly spasmed and he began to dry heave. His child. She was taking his child. Up until now, through the whole argument, the packing, the screaming, he'd been focused on himself and Jeannie. He had been academically aware that she was pregnant. But the import of it hadn't hit him until right then, sitting on that ottoman with a bloody chin. It hadn't occurred to him until now that his marriage was the least important thing on the table. Jeannie was carrying his child. Their child. And he wondered with horror if this was it – if this was the end of his fantasy of being a better father than his own, if the closest he would come to being the Cool Dad would be one weekend a month, a movie, and a consolatory teddy bear.

"Ah, hell," he choked. And at that, he broke down and began to cry into the bloody paper towel.

What was it they always said?

Like father, like son.

James Napier was the kind of guy that might make you laugh, might make you cry, but either way, he always got a reaction. It was just in his nature. Class clown, New Carthage High Class of '76. Keg King of Kappa Mu Upsilon, Gotham State Class of '80. And when the guys got together after their training at Callahan's Pub two streets down from the base, it wasn't a party if James didn't join them. He almost always had a smile on his face – that sort of cheek-splitting grin that usually means a man is either dangerous, a liar, or a roaring good time. James was the latter. And when mixed with alcohol, he was a one-man show. Get him a little buzzed, and suddenly he was Groucho Marx. Get him solidly intoxicated, and he was George Carlin on a roll. Get him wasted, and there was always the possibility that he'd be singing and dancing on a table. It had been known to happen. Never mind that if you pissed him off while he was in that state, he could swing to a sudden, sinister violence in an instant. James was rarely pissed off. It was hard to get mad with so much hilarity in the air. He was no failure with women, either. He was smart – great with scientific things, machines and engines and chemistry and such. A head full of red-gold hair, a strong jaw, sharp dark eyes, and a smirk that made every glance look like a wink – not to mention he knew how to wear a suit. People were drawn to him like moths to a flame – women who wanted him, and men who wanted to be like him (and be there to console the women he turned down). Everything about him was dynamic.

Which is why nobody could make sense of it when he decided to marry Margaret Collins that September after finishing at GSU. His friends had interrogated him about it for weeks. What had gotten into him? they wondered. Mags is alright, but… come on, it's Mags, they said. To them, she was just that quiet, mousy girl who worked pushing the book cart in the GSU library. She was so shy. She was untalented. She was unremarkable. Nobody could figure it out. His friends finally posited that maybe she was just really good in bed. After all, she was an older woman. His ex, Beth, snidely suggested that he needed someone mousy that he could dominate, so he would be sure to always have the last word and the last laugh. Theories abounded, but all they ever got out of James was that she was the yin to his yang. That she completed him. Either way… she was someone he could always coax into a laugh.

The person whose laughter James Napier seemed to care most about, though, was the little boy he brought home in February of 1982. James had never been particularly impressed with himself when he made other adults laugh. Adults, he said, had too many mitigating factors in their humor. Most of them were miserable. They wanted to laugh. Needed to laugh, even. They'd laugh at anything they could, simply on principle. And so the fact that they laughed at his antics was just a symptom of their own lack of contentment. A kid, on the other hand…. James would always smile knowingly when he said it. A kid didn't need you to be funny. A kid didn't require anything from adults to find amusement – they did it themselves. They were born that way, and life just eventually wore them down into humor-hungry adults. So a kid, he would say, was the best judge of what was funny and what wasn't. More importantly, they were honest about it. Adults would laugh at a bad joke to be polite; a kid would just stare at you like you were an idiot. And so when James Napier could make his son laugh, he considered it the height of achievement.

The problem was, of course, that it often seemed like everything was a joke to James, even when it very clearly wasn't. The curse of people who use humor to cope is that not everyone around them usually shares the sentiment, and that was where James would run into walls. He would remind Mags that laughter was the best medicine, as the saying goes. Mags would reply that it was the best medicine for some things. But while Nuprin was the best medicine for a headache, it wouldn't do anything to help with cancer. And while making a joke might be the best medicine for a little boy who scraped his knee on his tricycle, it wouldn't help at all when that same little boy had been sitting on the windowsill for hours and missing all his cartoons because he was hoping Daddy would be home early enough to play before bedtime. He couldn't just waltz out to work in the morning with a knock-knock joke and a promise, stay gone all day and most of the evening, and come back with a funny story and a kiss at bedtime. It wasn't enough. And James would hem and haw and avoid Margaret's eyes and finally apologize. He loved the kid. He really did. Jack knew it, and Mags knew it. She admitted that. But she wished he was home more often so he could love the kid in person. And he would agree. And he would promise to get home earlier tomorrow.

But he would always end the conversation with some kind of quip or story that left Mags wondering if he really understood how serious she was.

He did try, though. One weekend when there was no training and no bar hopping, he took seven-year-old Jack to the circus in Channel Park, where Uptown met Midtown. Jack had the time of his life. Even years later, when he was in college and the world was decidedly darker, he would tell people that. There were dangerous animals, and dangerous stunts, and rude humor, and all the junk food he could eat – and he got to stay up way past bedtime, because the circus didn't end until then and they still had the drive home. And James and Jack laughed the way men and their sons only can when Mommy isn't around to say not to try that at home, or that they can't have a second cotton candy because it's bad for their teeth, or that she'd better not ever catch either of them making a rude noise like that. It was like being co-conspirators in some wonderfully secret con, and they took advantage of every minute of it. James was in rare form. He got them great seats – second row, by the aisle, almost dead center of the trapeze. They got popcorn, and peanuts, and multiple flavors of cotton candy – and between acts, James would stuff his mouth full of popcorn and try to tell jokes, which ended in sprays of little white and yellow specks that came to rest all over his son's halo of blond curls. The boy just giggled and shook his head like a dog until they all fell into his lap. Then they would both collapse against each other, laughing. The perfect evening.

The highlight, of course, was the clowns. There were loads of them, each one more ridiculous than the next. One was a tall and burly man dressed as an old woman, complete with a curly grey wig and a neon pink pillbox hat above his white painted face and blue greasepaint smile. Another followed him wherever he went, this one an enormously fat bald man dressed in an oversized pink baby onesie and a lace bonnet. Rosy circles were painted on his cheeks. When he took his bottle (the size of a small child) away from his mouth, he screamed instead of speaking. Another man didn't seem to have any face paint at all, but was dressed like some sort of extravagant talk show host or car salesman – a neon pink and purple silk shirt peeping out from under a lime green rhinestone-studded sport coat with shoulders a foot across on each side, and all this topped by several inches of platinum blond hair that had been waxed or gelled straight up into a point. His eyebrows were painted on in vibrant green and black stripes. The whole crew stumped around the tent in their baggy clothes, making noises on horns, bopping each other on the head, dropping their pants to reveal huge boxer shorts of various obnoxious colors – electric blue, lemon yellow, zebra print, the lot. And little Jack giggled and clapped and a few times almost spat out his soda. And James beamed with pride and guffawed right along with him. At one point in the show, they even got to participate. The clowns waddled into the audience, ostensibly to do magic tricks. The clown who came into their section, a man with a fake pot-belly hidden inside a purple-grey checkered suit and a 1920s style flat cap on his huge curly wig, made a beeline for James and Jack at the end of their row. His face was painted white, with dark brows and a bright red smile and nose. He shuffled closer to them in his two-foot-long shoes and then bent close to little Jack, holding a gloved finger to his lips as if he were sharing a secret. Jack stared up at him, fascinated. The clown gave James a wink over the boy's shoulder, and James gave him one back; then the clown stood up straight and flung his suit coat open with a flourish. A cloud of playing cards burst out like an explosion from somewhere in the clown's chest and fluttered in the air like small paper birds before raining down around James and Jack and the people in the rows near them. There was no trace of where they had come from on the clown's sparkly teal and gold diamond-patterned vest. Jack laughed hysterically and picked up handfuls of the cards, flinging them into the air and trying to recreate the clown's trick. Reaching over his son, James stuck out his arm to offer the clown a handshake, which the clown returned.

A geyser of water came squirting out of the clown's hat and drenched James' face.

For a moment, there was silence in their little corner of the tent. Then James' characteristic smile split his face and he doubled over, howling with laughter. As the clown shuffled back into the center of the tent, James dropped back into his seat and began wiping his face dry on his jacket, but he was still grinning. A little water, ruin his perfect evening? Not a chance.

It was then that James had noticed his son staring at some people a few sections over. James had followed his gaze to where another clown – the car salesman – had just pulled the same trick on another audience member. Apparently, he hadn't taken it too well; his wife was trying to get him to sit down and shut up, but he was bent on heckling the rapidly-retreating clown. Car Salesman was awkwardly waddling back to the ring with a pained look under his striped eyebrows. James sighed and looked down at Jack. The boy was watching with a puzzled set to his pale brows. Why's he being so mean to the clown, Daddy? It was just a joke. James had draped an arm around the boy's bony shoulders. He's just a jerk. That clown'll be okay. Don't worry about him, he had told Jack. But that's the downside of comedy, kid. You're always taking crap from jerks who don't get the joke.

And having satisfied his son with that explanation, James had given his shoulders a good squeeze and pointed at the rippling curtain through which the elephants were about to appear. And they sat there like that until the last of the clowns, a ridiculous pirate with a bright orange peg leg, had cleared the ring.

They had never been more father and son than in that moment. And it truly was the best night of Jack's young life.

Jack had spent the next month or so trying to figure out how the clown had done the card trick – at least, until Mags was thoroughly fed up with the constant scattering of playing cards all over her living room floor. She snuck into her son's room one night that fall, scooped up every pack he had, and hid them until she thought he'd lost interest. But every now and again, the memories of that night at the circus would resurface, usually as a knowing look or a seemingly random outburst of laughter between James and Jack that left Margaret feeling generally left out of the loop. And one day that next August, while playing near the fence between their yard and the vacant Methodist church next door, Jack found a crumpled orange traffic cone in a dumpster, undoubtedly tossed there after it had a misadventure with someone's tire. He climbed the fence, dug it out, banged out as many of the dents as he could manage, and shoved his foot into it. And there it was – to his child's eyes, a perfect replica of that pirate clown's orange peg leg! After a few practice walks (and several faceplants), he stomped up the porch steps and into the living room to show James. Look, Dad! he had announced. Who am I?

James looked up at him. He didn't laugh.

As his parents turned back to the small television without really acknowledging him, little Jack's face fell. But undeterred, he stomped further into the living room and looked to see what they were watching. It was some kind of news. There were pictures of a place that looked like a desert, and some people with guns, and a man with a big black mustache. The man with the mustache was making a speech, and he looked mad. There were a lot of words that Jack didn't understand, but he wasn't the best reader in his class for nothing, and he could usually make some sense of adult concepts even if the details escaped him. He got the idea that the man with the mustache was upset with some other people because he thought they stole his gas, and the men with the guns worked for him, and that the news people were afraid that he was going to do a lot of bad things and there might be a WAR. Jack understood that word, oh yes. And he guessed that was why his mom and dad were upset. Because if there was a WAR, then Jack's dad might have to go and help the soldiers. Jack wasn't too worried, of course. His dad wasn't a regular soldier. He just worked on machines that kept the soldiers' water clean. So Jack tugged on James's shirttail and tried to tell him that. Don't worry, Dad. You're gonna be okay. You're not a regular soldier. Right? James just ruffled his son's hair and told him to go play in his room. And Jack did.

Less than five months later it was January, and Jack and Mags were waving at James's plane as it left Gotham Airport for Fort Lee, Virginia. The 14th Quartermaster Detachment arrived in Saudi Arabia on February 19, 1991, two days before Jack's ninth birthday. James got to make a quick phone call home on the 21st, long enough to say happy birthday, kiddo, and that was Jack's favorite present he got all day. It was also the last time he ever heard his father laugh.

Four days later, an Al-Hussein ballistic missile destroyed the 14th's barracks. James Napier was among the forty-three members of the 14th seriously wounded. He was evacuated to Germany along with several of his injured comrades. There were surgeries, and bandages, and hovering faces, and lots of meds. There were several days that, afterward, James could never quite recall. And it was March before the 14th officially made it back to the States.

James Napier was flown into Gotham Airport on March 10th.

His leg stayed behind in the Saudi desert, buried under the rubble of the 14th's barracks.

Like father, like son.

That was how the expression went, wasn't it? Jack rolled the words around his mouth, and they tasted like ash. But of course, it was true. He'd always been his father's son. The personality. The sense of humor. The taste for whiskey. That last one caught in his throat as he thought about it and it threatened to choke him. God, I had to inherit that too, didn't I? he spat mentally as he wiped again at his chin. Still bleeding. Disgusted, he shoved the paper towel back over the cut and stared down at the rug. In the kitchen, he could hear Jeannie rifling through the refrigerator. Probably taking her cheese sticks and her garlic microwave dinners and that awful juice cocktail she liked so much. God, but she was thorough.

Almost as thorough as you, he thought bitterly. No, you don't half-ass anything, do you? When you screw up, you screw UP. Just like Dad. Everything goes great for just long enough for everybody to get comfy, and then WHAM!

It all blows up.

And you're left with a pile of rubble that you just scatter around instead of trying to rebuild. You can't do anything but make it worse.

Like father, like son.

It didn't matter to anyone in the house on 127th Street what the official record said. James Napier died in Operation Desert Storm.

The man who came home in what was left of his body wasn't him.

They all tried to pretend for a few months, and they put on a good masquerade for anybody on the outside looking in. Some of James's friends came over for dinner a few times, and there would be James, sitting at the dining room table with a bottle of whiskey and a ready joke. And they would eat, and smoke, and play cards – one night, James even invited his son to join, and they taught the boy to play poker while Mags watched disapprovingly from the ironing board in the living room. Jack, now ten, had jumped at the chance. His Dad was treating him like a big man – he was playing poker with grown-ups! They even let him put his baseball cards in the pot like money. And his Dad's friends laughed when he told jokes. And they complimented James on his son's sense of humor. And everything was hunky-dory. Then, at least.

None of them saw the elaborate preparations those evenings entailed. Like a massive stage show that had to go off without a hitch, there were sets to be prepared and lines to be learned. No one saw the hours between breakfast and Jack's returning school bus, hours which James spent motionless in the armchair in front of the television, pretending to do his exercises whenever Mags walked through the room with an armload of laundry, and medicating his phantom pain with cigarettes and Johnnie Walker. No one saw the two hours of scrambling between then and dinner, during which Margaret made the food in a fluster according to James's shouts from the living room, and Jack scurried here and there trying to pick up his toys and do whatever Dad told him to do. No one saw the fifteen minutes of arguing that always started up when Mags tried to get James to let her toss the bottles or empty the ash trays or change his dressing. She would eventually convince him of the latter, and while she unwrapped and cleaned and medicated and wrapped again, she would plead with Jack with her eyes, and he would quietly slide the bottles and cigarette packs and butt-filled ash trays under the ruffled skirt of the armchair where visitors couldn't see them. Then there would be the long walk from the living room to the kitchen, James leaning on his wife's shoulder and cursing like a sailor, Jack running ahead and making sure the chair was pulled out and the rugs were all lying flat. And so by the time the doorbell rang, James would be in position, ready with the wit and the whiskey, his stump carefully hidden beneath the dining room table. And no one saw anything but the James Napier they all knew and loved, a few pounds lighter, sure, but an American hero and still the funniest guy in the room, to boot.

Then, of course, the guests had to go home.

It was those evenings on which Jack would look back in later years with the most distaste, the memories whose stench was the strongest. Once the footsteps had cleared the porch and the headlights had cleared the driveway, James would just sit at the dining room table like a statue, moving only briefly from time to time to lift the glass (and then eventually just the bottle) to his lips. Mags would clean the table and the kitchen without a sound, and Jack would sit in front of the TV and watch Nickelodeon, turning his head during the commercials to see if his Dad wanted to get up yet. He usually didn't. Jack would contemplate going to the table to talk to him, maybe tell jokes, or do the card trick Andrew showed him at school the other day. But then he would look at his Dad's face and remember – how he'd stood on the porch the day James had come home, waiting with a smile that his Dad never returned; how James had barely looked at him as he had stomped up the crumbling concrete steps; how a few nights later, he'd stood by his Dad's armchair and tried to tell him about Jamie getting the pencil stuck up his nose, and all he'd gotten was a blank stare. He would remember all those things, and then he would turn morosely back to the TV, watching Ren boss Stimpy around and not really caring about them at all. Jack was allowed to stay up until Are You Afraid of the Dark? went off; then he would quietly switch off the television, pick up his baseball cards or his scuffed-up Iron Man or his Legos, and drift down the hall to his room. He would always stop in the doorway and turn around one more time. Goodnight, Dad…. he would venture. Nothing. On rare occasions, James would turn and regard the small boy in the hallway with something akin to acknowledgement. But most of the time he just stared out the window. And so Jack would go into his room and close the door; he would dump the cards or the toys or the blocks into the green chest that, when closed, became a seat; he would throw his clothes into the pile by his door; and he would turn off his Ninja Turtles lamp and go to bed.

That's when his Dad always did the most talking. And boy, did he talk then.

Jack could never hear how it started; his mother's voice didn't carry, and his father's voice was always slurred by the drink. But it usually started in the kitchen and found its way into the living room. And then he could hear it all – in THX surround sound. After all the mumbles and the grumbles and the grunts of protest, there would be the sounds of things moving in the kitchen. The sound of the whole table being scooted on linoleum. Once or twice Jack thought he heard glass breaking. There would be shuffles and snapped words and muffled curses as Mags helped her husband back to his armchair. Then the sounds would explode into things Jack could understand.

James, honey, why won't you wear your—

Because I don't WANT to wear the damn leg, Margaret. How the hell else can I say it? There would be shuffling sounds then, as James settled into the chair and as Mags hovered nearby, weighing her options.

Jim, it would be a lot easier for me to help you get around the hou—

DAMMIT, Margaret, I TOLD you to STOP…CALLING ME…JIM. And …you know what else? What good is the damn LEG supposed to be if I put it on and you STILL have to help me around the fucking house? Silence, for a few moments. The sound of the lever being pulled and the chair being let out. Then more shouting. Where the hell are my cigarettes? And my ash trays? I swear to God, Margaret, if you moved them again…. Another mumble from Mags. Oh yeah? Well, what the HELL are they doing under the damn CHAIR? Did the kid put them there? Go get him up, he—

I told him to, James. Don't wake him.

You TOLD him to? Told the kid to shove my damn ash trays up under my chair like the fucking seven dwarves sweeping under the rug? Why the hell would you tell him that?

James, we had company, I needed to get the house looking presentable, and you wouldn't—

Margaret, do you think I give a damn if those jerk-offs I used to work with see how much I smoke?

Well, I care, James, and—

Ah, HELL, Margaret! Yeah, you care, don't you? You care. You care that everybody sees the disgusting state your fucking crippled husband has put your perfect little life into, hmm? That's what you care about. Get your HANDS OFF ME. Get off. Go to bed. And then there would be silence for a few moments more. In his room, Jack would pull the blankets up to his nose and wait for the climax. It always came.

James, at least let me—

I SAID GET THE HELL TO BED! Leave me ALONE! And on more than one occasion, the shouts would be punctuated by the sound of a bottle or ash tray shattering on the coffee table behind Mags, which would make Jack jump in his bed, even when he was expecting it. The words were a little different every night, but they always followed the same pattern. Sometimes the yelling would happen before they left the kitchen. Sometimes it waited until Jack was almost asleep, waking him to a moment of dark panic before he remembered where he was. It always ended the same way, though – the soft, slow sound of Mags pushing her tired feet across the hall carpet to her bedroom; the sound of the television being turned back on; and the helpless creak of the hinges as Mags shut her bedroom door.

And that's how it went for months after Not-Really-James came home. At the age of ten, Jack didn't know much about how grown-ups went about the complexities of their relationships. But he knew that people were supposed to be married because they liked each other. They were supposed to hug and kiss, and say nice stuff to each other, and do other stuff that he wasn't quite clear on yet because it happened after he went to sleep. At any rate, he knew that moms and dads were supposed to sleep in the same bed. And they were supposed to do all that stuff because they liked each other. They weren't supposed to yell at each other, or throw stuff, or get mad just because there was too much salt in the mashed potatoes. But there it was, happening anyway. He thought about it every night when he went to bed. He figured that, if people were supposed to act a certain way, then it was like a rule; and if there was a rule, then somebody had to make that rule. And so when he turned off his Ninja Turtles lamp every night, Jack would think about the great big Somebody who he figured made rules like that, a God or the Universe or some other Something he didn't have a name for. He would think really hard, like thinking harder would help the Somebody hear him. And he would ask the Somebody to please, please come enforce the rules. He would ask Them if maybe They could come to his house and talk to Mom and Dad before they started arguing tonight. Or maybe tomorrow night. Or whenever They could. He would ask if maybe They could put Mom or Dad in time-out, or ground them, or however you punished grown-ups when they didn't follow rules. He didn't really know how that worked. But he would ask anyway. And the asking would eventually turn to begging when he heard the scoot of the table on the kitchen floor.

But nobody ever came. He would listen to the quiet closing of Margaret's bedroom door, and cry until he fell asleep, and nobody came. It was a whole year before Mags stopped going to bed alone. But by then, Jack got the feeling that it didn't matter. Even if James was in the room – she was alone anyway.

Over the years of his childhood, Jack's days began to blend together. The individual things that happened in them changed, but the pattern never did. The TV showed Space Cases instead of Ren and Stimpy, and Pete & Pete instead of Are You Afraid of the Dark?; his Iron Man broke and Mags couldn't afford to get him another one, so she got him a used Spiderman instead (which he didn't like nearly as much, but didn't have the heart to tell Mags); he read comic books instead of playing with Legos; and people stopped coming to visit his dad. The fights didn't start in the kitchen anymore because James rarely went there. In fact, he rarely went anywhere except the bed, the toilet, and his armchair. Mags brought him his meals on a tray with fold-out legs and sat in nervous silence on the couch nearby, folding laundry or sewing up the holes in Jack's pants and trying not to meet James's eyes. Instead of the kitchen, the fights now started in the bedroom. They would argue sharply and abruptly in the morning, when Mags had to get herself ready for work and James ready to sit in his chair, and they would argue darkly and hotly in the hour or two after midnight, when Jack was supposed to be sleeping and when he knew other kids' parents were kissing or being romantic or cuddling up to sleep. He could hear the muffled sounds of it through his wall. The curses and growls bookended his days and nights in a never-ending cycle. And Jack came to realize that maybe there were no rules for grown-ups, only for children – that maybe you only had to follow rules until you were old enough to make them, that nothing was really "Supposed-To" happen. The idea of the way things were Supposed-To be was like a fairy tale or a comic book – it sounded nice, but it never really happened to most people.

There was one Supposed-To, however, to which Jack was able to cling until he was almost twelve. The slow crumbling of his parents' relationship with each other was already past the point of being stopped; but for nearly two years after his father came home, the poisonous runoff from their arguments and resentments had yet to seep into Jack's relationship with his father. James was distant; he never laughed, rarely interacted. But as heated or as unsettling as his arguments became with Mags, he had never raised his voice to his son. Jack fixated on that fact. The fact that his father barely spoke to him at all now, he tried to look past. He would rather have his father silent than screaming at him. He told himself that his father's lack of anger toward him meant that there was a chance to get back to the way things were – eventually, carefully. So Jack started forming a plan. He practiced for weeks to get it just right – hundreds of attempts, reworking and trying multiple methods, all in the time he managed to scrape up between school and homework, or before bed by lamplight. And when he felt that he had it down, he steeled himself and went to show his father.

Hey, Dad?

A glance from the figure in the chair, but not really an answer. His dad was pretending to watch the TV, but Jack knew better – the commercials were on. He adjusted his denim jacket and moved closer to the armchair.

Dad, I wanted to show you something. Can I?

At first, all he got was a raised eyebrow and silence. Then James took a swig from the bottle that had been between his thighs, as if the drink was necessary for him to make such a decision.

Sure, he finally mumbled. Jack took a couple of deep breaths. Now or never. He grabbed nervously at the lapels of his jacket, let go, and then took hold of them again.

Watch this! he chirped. And then with one more deep breath to distract himself from James's impassive face, he jerked open the denim jacket. Playing cards exploded from somewhere between the folds of the coat and Jack's oversized sweater, fluttered through the air, and rained down over the living room, the chair, and James like confetti at a parade. TA-DAAAA! Jack exclaimed. He felt like dancing. It had worked! He had been so scared that something would go wrong – he'd practiced it a million times in his room, and it had worked maybe ninety-five percent of the time, but he'd been so worried that this would be one of those failed attempts – but it had worked! His grin stretched from ear to ear, and he heard himself giggle.

The smile then began to sag as he realized that James wasn't laughing.

His father had barely moved. He was sitting like a statue, snowdrifts of playing cards on his shoulders, in his lap; one had managed to land right behind his left ear. Slowly, he reached up and plucked it disdainfully, looked at it for a moment, and then flicked it away like ash from a cigarette. Jack opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His father gave him a cold, dead fish look.

What the hell was that?

Remember, Dad? From the circus? Jack gulped. It took me forever to figure out how he did it, and I had to practice it over and over until I got it right, and I had to use three decks of cards, but I finally figured it out! And— Jack suddenly found his voice gone. His father was glaring at him.

Fucking…clowns. You came in here and destroyed the living room…because of fucking clowns?

Dad, I—

CHRIST, Jack, look at my chair! Look at the damn FLOOR! It's not enough that the damn physical therapist is coming today, and they're gonna poke the hell out of my fucking STUMP, and tell me again how I "really need to go" to their stupid support group and… I don't know… rub NUBS… with the other gimps, and… and ask me over and over if I want the damn CHAPLAIN to come and see me, and talk shit about how I "should stop seeing this as the end, and look at this experience as a steppingstone to the rest of my life." He stopped and stared at his son's quivering face, then took another deep swig from the bottle. Did you hear that, son? A. Stepping. Stone. Fucking… STEPPING …STONE! The last words came out as a sort of strangled cry. James's eyes locked on his son's like missiles; then he launched the not-quite-empty whiskey bottle with all the force he could muster. It cleared Jack's head and shattered on the wall behind the television. Glass exploded like shrapnel, showering the doily and silk flowers on top of the TV set and raining down on the cigarette-burned carpet. One piece nicked Jack's cheek, and a smaller chunk landed softly in his dark blond curls. Behind him, a caramel-colored stain was trickling down the dingy wallpaper. Jack heard himself whimper, and he caught the tears before they came out and held them, like someone desperately trying to hold onto the leash of a dog that was about to run in front of a car.

What happened? Mags practically flew into the room, her hair still in a towel and her bathrobe only barely closed. It was really more of a panicked scream than a question. Neither of her men answered her at first. Jack only stood, shaking, in the middle of a mine field of glass and playing cards, not able to look up, and James kept staring at him, hands clenched over the arms of the chair, like an animal waiting to pounce.

YOUR SON happened, Margaret. He decided to share his fucking MAGIC tricks with the whole living room, thirty minutes before the physical THERAPIST gets here.

James, don't talk—

Shut UP. I can talk any way I damn well please. It's my fucking house.

James, I don't like it when you curse in front of Ja—

FUCK! James screamed. Fuck! Damn! Hell! Shit! Ass! Fuck! Fuck-fuck-FUCKITY-FUCK! And he picked up the green blown-glass ash tray and hurled it at her. It sailed across the room to the hallway door, trailing ashes like a comet, and crashed into the corner where Margaret had just been standing with a dull, flat thuk. The four large chunks it broke into dropped onto the carpet into a pile of butts. NOW, he barked, his face stretching into a greasy, pained smile. YOU …will get your ass back into the bathroom and finish getting ready so when the therapist gets here, you can worry about your crippled husband embarrassing you instead of your hair. And YOU, he said to Jack as he turned, will get YOUR little ass down in the floor and pick up every…single…one… of these cards, and every…single…piece… of that glass, because it's your own damn fault it's broken, and you will get it done within twenty-five minutes, because this room is going to be fucking perfect when the therapist gets here. Last thing I need is some over-paid stuck-up masseuse in dress slacks to come in here and give me crap about my living environment WHILE she asks me to lift my stump five billion times. And having said it, he settled back down into the armchair and grabbed the remote control violently off the side table.

Jack sniffled. Sniffled again. Looked to his mother for direction. But Mags was standing in the hallway entrance, her hands shaking, clutching at the elbows of her robe as if in shock. She simply looked at her son with a blank expression that told him she was just as wounded and at a loss as he was. Jack felt his stomach turn, felt his lip quiver as he tried to hold back breakfast, and sniffed one more time, this time trying to suck in all the tears that were threatening to burst out. Then, slowly, he bent to the floor and started picking up cards.

Oh, and Jack? Jack's head snapped up, and he searched his father's face for some type of sympathy or apology. But the pained smile was still there. When I said down in the floor, I meant it. You're blocking the fucking TV. And he punched another button on the remote and fell back into silence.

Jack dropped to his knees obediently (a small piece of glass poked through his jeans and cut him, but wouldn't notice until later) and started scooping cards toward him across the carpet, listening to the quiet whisper of their slick surfaces on the dirty, pock-marked nap. He kept his head down. As long as he kept his head down, he could focus on cleaning and not on his father in the chair. As long as he kept his head down, he didn't have to worry about James thinking of something else to say to him.

As long as he kept his head down, neither of his parents would see the streak of the one frustrated tear that he'd failed to keep locked up with the others. He was almost twelve. Boys who were almost twelve didn't cry. He repeated it over and over in his head as he scooped up wet, smelly glass in his hands. And he kept repeating it futilely that night in bed, the whole time he was crying a damp puddle into the center of his pillow. He didn't want to cry. It didn't do a bit of good, and it gave him headaches. And by about four o'clock that morning, he had managed to stem the tide. But it was a night that left an indelible mark on his young psyche. There was not a single day of Jack's childhood that didn't see the memory of those tears resurface, at least once, usually unbidden. And even as childhood morphed into adolescence, as his father's angry outbursts mellowed into bitter silences; even as life resumed a sort of pattern; even as Jack learned to quiet the memories the way one quiets a barking dog – that night played on like a film strip in his memory, just under the surface, the low growl of the dog who knows he cannot bark but who cannot by nature be silent. It was the soundtrack to which he became a man. And he told himself time after time, when the memory flared up again like an old wound, that it would always serve him as a reminder.

A reminder that no matter what kind of man he grew into, that man would not be a reflection of his father. He wouldn't let himself.

He couldn't let himself.

It would be the same as betraying that little boy who was eternally curled up under a phantom Ninja Turtles blanket, crying endless phantom tears into the dark recesses of Jack's memory. And so he swore to himself that it would never happen. He wrote it like a contract on his brain, signed it again every time he came to a turning point or made a decision. He put a seal on it the day he left for college, his bags stacked in the back of Ryder Wolfe's convertible. He would not become the man sitting on the porch polishing off another bottle, saluting drunkenly and sarcastically behind his mother's back. He would not become the man in that armchair, surrounded by the smell of whiskey and tension and despair. He wouldn't. It wasn't an option.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do, James had called after him, slurred and deprecating.

Gun it, he had growled to Ryder, and they had sped away. He was done with that house, with that man, with that life.

Of course, he wasn't done enough to refuse the offer when Ryder brought out a bottle of Jim Beam to christen their newly furnished dorm.

Like father, like son.

"Fuck," Jack murmured into the paper towel. He immediately regretted it; the thing was getting soggy now with tears and blood, and his breath nearly shredded it.

Plus it made him sound an awful lot like his father.

That was his favorite word, you know, he heard his brain sneer. Jack had a sudden compulsion to never, ever say that word again. Merely on principle. Angry, he wadded up the paper towel and tossed it in the trash can by the front door. He snorted in disgust. That, she was leaving. Of course. Why take the garbage can? The garbage was his. Jack hung his head.

Then he felt blood on his chin again. A growl bubbled up in his throat, but he suppressed it. He thought about going upstairs and seeing if she had left him any Band-Aids; then he realized that he was still bleeding too much. It would just soak through. And he was going to have to go back into the kitchen if he wanted another paper towel, which meant braving Hurricane Jeannie. He wasn't sure he was ready for that.

Plop. A fat drop of blood hit his shirt just below the collar, and he sighed. He would just have to be ready. Summoning his courage, he walked back across the hardwood floor to the kitchen entrance.

Jeannie was sitting in the floor beside the garbage can, a spray of Tupperware bowls and lids littering the floor around her, sobbing uncontrollably into the floppy ends of her sweater sleeves. In the corner sat the large plastic bin where she always kept all the Tupperware. The handle had broken – hence the dishes scattered all over the floor. Jack guessed that had been one thing too many for her in her current condition, and she had finally broken down. He stood dumbly in the doorway and watched her shoulders shake with huge, wracking sobs, feeling exactly like he was being slowly eviscerated. His first instinct was to get into the floor with her and hold her; but he had a strong suspicion that if he tried that, she'd just sock him right in the mouth. And she was delicate, but she had a decent right hook. So instead, he just stepped timidly into the kitchen and waited for her reaction. She did nothing but continue crying. He knew he should probably say something. Anything. Whatever would make her stop. Except….

Except he knew that cry. He knew that tone, that shake of the shoulders. Knew it from experience. That was the kind of crying that didn't stop just at a sweet word. It was the kind of crying that wanted to go on for hours – and that did go on, secretly, for days, even weeks, under a person's skin. It was the cry of a person whose final recourse has been taken away, and crying is the only remaining choice. And so Jack said nothing. Instead, he took another step into the kitchen – close enough to reach the counter – and tried to tear another paper towel off the roll without making any noise. It didn't work; he heard the subtle change in the sound of Jeannie's cries as she became aware of his presence. The air immediately filled with a poisonous tension, and Jack just stood there awkwardly for a moment, holding the paper towel up to his chin. Then he sighed.

"Jeannie, I'm a piece of shit and a bastard, and I'm sorry." It was all he could get out before he felt his throat threatening to close up again. After another sigh, he turned around to go back to the living room.

"Oh, I know you are," Jeannie mumbled from behind her hands, and Jack froze. "Ha… I, um… I guess I should have expected it, though. Right?" Jack turned to look. Jeannie had dropped her hands to her lap. Her face was pale, blotched with red and streaked with tears and mascara. But even though there was still crying in her voice, her eyes were hard. "I mean, I knew what I was getting into when I married you. Didn't I?"

"Jeannie, pl—"

"After all, I was the one who 'straightened you out' the first time, ha ha…. I guess I didn't do as good a job as I thought I did. Or maybe you just never loved me enough to stay clean. Is that it?" Her voice was still cloudy with tears, but it was dripping venom nonetheless. Jack flinched. She might as well have just kicked him in the balls and gotten it over with. It would have hurt less.

"Ah, hell, Jeannie, d—"

"DON'T you DARE act offended, Jack!" she interrupted, and it came out as nearly a shriek. "I'm the one that gets to do that, NOT you. Not after what you did."

"SHIT, Jeannie, it wasn't like I WANTED to! I was—"

"HIGH! I KNOW!" Jeannie screamed, matching the pitch of his voice and raising him a couple of decibels for his trouble. "You were HIGH. What a wonderful excuse! You were so high, you FLEW right into BED with that little slut… but THAT'S OKAY, BECAUSE YOU WERE HIGH! THAT MEANS IT DOESN'T COUNT!" Her voice was breaking, and her face was turning red. If she kept screaming like that, Jack thought absently, she would overheat. Especially in that sweater.

"Jeannie, don—"

Jeannie, don't do that, you're going to raise your blood pressure too much, and it's bad for the baby. That's what he started to say. Then he saw Jeannie's eyes begin spitting hot green fire, and he shut his mouth abruptly. He just stood there with the paper towel over his chin turning red, waiting for her to throw the next punch. It didn't take long.

"And while we're at it," she launched, "how about we talk about you being a liar as WELL as a cheating bastard? Hmm?"

"Jeannie—"

"Let's just get this one thing out of the way before you start making arguments, okay, Mr. Smooth Talker? Let's just be clear. You'd better not DARE speak the words won't happen again to me. As if this was a one-time thing. A MISTAKE. Because mistakes happen ONCE. Maybe twice. But you… no, you go all in. You've been using again for the past six MONTHS. So don't you DARE pretend this was a one-time mistake."

"Jeannie, it was a mistake—"

"THE MISTAKE… WAS MARRYING YOU!" she shrieked. Jack whipped his face to the side as if he'd been slapped. He took a deep breath, fighting back complete insanity. His eyes fixated on the chipped spot in the plaster right below the light switch – where the lid of the blender had hit that time they'd tried to make smoothies a few months after they got married. He still remembered. Absolutely nothing had gone right that night – exploding blender, burnt lasagna, power outage on their block – but they had ordered pizza and climbed onto the roof of the brownstone to eat it, along with all the ice cream that would have otherwise melted in the freezer, and had watched planes fly over on their way to Gotham International. And it had been perfect. Jack clenched his teeth to hold back sobs and stared at that chip in the plaster as if it were a life raft he might be able to hang onto. If he didn't find something, he was going to drown.

"Crap."

The sound of rustling plastic bowls and Jeannie's mutters jerked his attention back to the moment at hand. She was trying to get up off the floor, but she was pregnant and angry and weak from crying, and it was a challenge she hadn't anticipated. He watched her reaching for the lip of the counter for a second, and then he walked over and instinctively reached down to pull her up.

Jeannie reacted to his touch with something like the hiss of a feral cat. She tried to jerk away.

"Get off. I can do it myself."

Jack knew better than to respond. But he didn't let go until he was sure she was steady on her feet. Then they just stood there in painful silence, Jeannie staring at her Tupperware on the floor and Jack watching her with growing desperation. He pulled at the paper towel; it let go of his chin with a pop that told him the blood was starting to gum up. Relieved, he balled it up and tossed it into the garbage can. Then he met Jeannie's eyes.

"Do you want me to help you pack the Tupperware back up?" he murmured defeatedly. Jeannie glared at him coldly for a bit. Then a hard mask came over her face, and she crossed her arms.

"Sure," she said sharply. "And while you're at it, you can take THIS." Roughly, she shoved some object into his hands. "I found it where you hid it in the closet. It's yours. Have all you want." Jack gulped. He didn't want to look down at the thing he was holding. But he did anyway.

It was his half-empty "emergency" bottle of Jim Beam. He could see Jeannie's face reflected in the glass, a portrait of fragmented, pained triumph. Jack groaned in disgust. And in that moment, he didn't know which he wanted to do more: go outside and launch the bottle into the dumpster, watch it shatter into a million pieces… or take a good, long drink.

Jack Napier took his first drink not long before his thirteenth birthday. It wasn't even because he wanted it; it was hard to want something with a smell that reminded you of the worst day of your life. It was more like a gauntlet had been thrown, and desire notwithstanding, he had to pick it up. That was just the way of things for a young boy who was trying to be a man. Gauntlets had to be picked up, challenges had to be accepted. Especially when the person who threw the gauntlet was the man generally known as your father.

By late 1994, Jack and James had long since ceased to regard each other as father and son. For Jack, James was just the man who took up space in the living room and drank away most of his mother's salary. And for James, Jack was just a way for him to vicariously express his anger at the universe. They were a lot alike, Jack and James. It was becoming easier and easier to see it as Jack hit puberty and headed into his teenage years – the depth in the eyes, the volume of the voice, the blinding smile (not that James ever smiled anymore; but everyone said that when Jack grinned, it was his father made over). But mostly, it was the sheer intensity of being which seemed to emanate from the both of them, the way either of them seemed to have complete command of any room they were in.

This understandably became a problem when both were in the same room.

The Napier house became a volatile environment, a beaker with two highly reactive elements bouncing around inside. Whenever they touched, sparks flew. Mags, the one neutral agent in the mix, could only sit back and watch; because no matter how badly she wanted to speak up, when the two of them were clashing, she barely existed.

And so in the winter of 1994, one evening during the no-man's-land on the calendar between Thanksgiving and Christmas, one of the inevitable clashes took place at the dinner table over turkey sandwiches and broccoli casserole. James had by this time started to eat at the table on a regular basis again, although he was washing down his turkey with Johnnie Walker instead of the soda Mags had managed to save from the Thanksgiving party at work. He refused to put it away, but he did indulge Margaret's begging by drinking from a tumbler instead of straight from the bottle. It was a mostly silent dinner table. Mags put food to mouth hurriedly, hoping to finish dinner before something happened that she had to defuse. Jack was eating distractedly with one hand and coloring his homework assignment with the other; it was a stack of worksheets depicting the various bones of the human body which, when colored and cut out, could be glued together to make the whole skeleton. It was due the day before Christmas break. He and his friend Nash were doing most of the work on the group project themselves, because their other group members didn't seem too interested in helping. They knew Nash and Jack were probably the two smartest kids in the whole seventh grade, maybe the whole school, and they figured they were better off just letting the two of them do all the work. It was probably true. So Nash was at home filling up index cards with definitions and facts from their book, so they'd know what to say in front of the class, and Jack was coloring and labeling the skeleton. Meanwhile, James sat like a statue at the end of the table, eating occasionally, drinking frequently, but mostly just staring at his son with an odd look in his dark eyes.

You'd better put away those crayons and eat. Casserole's not good cold. He poured himself another tumbler. Jack had just glared up at him darkly through blond curls, which he was starting to grow out because he thought it made him look like Kurt Cobain.

They're not crayons, he had muttered. They weren't. They were colored pencils. But James went on as though he hadn't heard him.

Don't know why the hell you're playing with crayons at the dinner table anyway. You don't need crayons. That's baby shit. Are you a baby, Jack?

I'm doing my homework, Jack had grumbled, this time not even looking up. He just kept coloring the clavicle. We're doing a presentation about bones. It's due before break. I'm getting it done. It's called 'being responsible.' Not that you'd know anything about that.

What did you say to me, kid? James drained the tumbler in one gulp. Mags dropped her fork nervously, but neither of them paid attention to her. Jack kept coloring, which made James red in the face. I'm talking to you, you little smart-ass. Now you look up at me and tell me what you just said, or I'll break those little crayons and grind 'em up in your food. Make you eat them. Then your food'll be a rainbow. How about that? Perfect for baby food.

Screw you, Jack growled. He kept coloring.

Wah, wah, wah, mocked James, this time just taking a swig directly from the bottle. Just like a fucking baby, always whining.

I'm NOT a baby, Jack had rumbled. He was deceptively quiet, but there was a storm brewing behind his eyes like thunderheads in a distant sky. He'd gotten through the squeaky stage of his voice changing earlier that year, and the shadowy bass undertone in his speech had already begun to take root. To most people, it would have been a deterrent – like the low warning growl of a dog who is not quite ready to bite but might soon change his mind. James, however, just kept plowing heedlessly ahead.

Oh, no, of course. I'm sorry. My mistake. You're a grown-ass man. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jack Napier, Grown-Ass Man! He spread his arms wide, swinging the bottle as he went. He's so grown up, he pays his own bills, and everything! Why, I bet he even pays the rent on this house! Oh…. No…. wait a second – I'm sorry, that would be ME. Jack Napier doesn't pay for anything himself because he's a damn BABY who plays with CRAYONS instead of eating his DINNER.

SMACK.

The maroon pencil Jack had been using on the cross-section of bone marrow hit the table with a snap that was flat but full of volume and import. He flicked hair out of his eyes.

STOP calling me that, okay? Just…STOP. I'm NOT a baby. And you don't pay the stupid rent, MOM does. You're a pathetic drunk.

WEEELLLL, look who knows everything about everything! James crowed. Okay, Mister. You're not a baby. Fine. You're such a knowledgeable, responsible, grown-ass man. Sure thing. Bet you can do all kinds of things like a man. His face kept its pretense of smiling, but his eyes grew hard. Here.

With a thunk, James slammed the half-bottle of Johnnie Walker down on the table in front of Jack, with the tumbler beside it. Then he waited expectantly. Well, come on. You want to be a man, prove it. Have a drink. And take it like a man. You gotta empty it in one shot. Here, I'll even pour it for you. And he began filling the tumbler.

James, I—

Shut up, Margaret. Now come on, Jacky. Drink up.

It stinks, Jack growled. James grinned.

No more than the stink of cowardice. Are you a fraidy-cat, Jack?

Fuck off, Jack spat, and began getting up from the table. His mother gasped and gave him a disapproving look, but he barely noticed. James took a swipe at him and managed to grab the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

Now you listen here, smart-ass – you drink this, or I'm going to keep calling you a baby until you're forty. Are you ready to deal with that? Or would you rather just drink this, puke, and get it over with? Your choice. For a moment, Jack and James just stared at each other like a bull and a matador. Then Jack jerked his sleeve out of his father's grasp. Good answer, James slurred.

Jack's eyes never left James as he reached over and picked up the tumbler of whiskey. And even after it was up to his mouth, he still broke eye contact only when he threw his head back to swallow. The drink was gone in one gulp, and Jack slammed the tumbler back down onto the table, still gripping it as he leaned over, just above James's face.

Will that be all? he sneered, his lips curling half out of rage and half from trying to hide his reaction to the alcohol. His father made no sound or motion, except a slight upturn of one eyebrow. Jack went on as if it had been a nod. Good. And without warning, he threw the tumbler with all this strength; it shattered on the wall behind the dinner table and rained glass all over the linoleum. Mags gasped, but James was a statue. Calmly, Jack boxed up his colored pencils, stacked his worksheets under his arm, and picked up his plate. Sorry about the mess, Mom. Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up tonight after this piece of shit is in bed. And sorry about my language. But I guess I learned from the best. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in my room getting my work done.

And that's exactly where he went. Jack finished his coloring on the old toy chest in his bedroom, with the battered old cassette player on the windowsill blaring out Goo Goo Dolls, Screaming Trees, Pearl Jam, and Green Day until well after midnight. It turned out pretty well, all things considered – he got a little dizzy not long after he locked the door and turned up the first tape, and he colored out of the lines a little, but what the heck? He was going to cut it out anyway.

And he only almost puked once.

Granted, he hiccupped violently for about thirty seconds right after he closed the door, and his stomach burned like hell. And he spat in the trash can a few times. And he felt like puking every time he did. But after he got down to coloring and cranked up the music, he was okay.

In fact, he was great.

He didn't even think about dinner, or Mags or James, or any of it. He just thought about bones. And colored pencils. And how much better Green Day sounded when you were slightly buzzed and had nothing to think about except bones and colored pencils. He could feel all the muscles in his arm twitching under the surface in a way he never could before, and he was conscious for the first time of the effort required to keep his head erect. Between worksheets, he let his head roll to one side or the other, just feeling the way his movements felt suspended in gelatin. Like being in a giant Jell-O bowl, he imagined. None of this was really a detriment to his work. In fact, he felt like his pencil strokes had a little more flow to them. Very Van Gogh.

All the same, he waited to cut out the bones until the next morning. It paid to be cautious.

And that was how it started. Although it didn't seem like much at the time, a much older Jack many years down the road would come to be very angry with that twelve-year-old boy for taking up his father's stupid challenge. It was easier to throw stones at the memory of his childhood for making the first move than to scold his adult self for being unable to stop. He would turn over and over in his mind the faults and failures of Jack Napier on the eve of turning thirteen – how his hatred of his father and everything the alcohol had done to him should have been enough of a deterrent, how anything that tasted as bad as that first gulp of Johnnie Walker had tasted to him shouldn't have had any appeal the second time around. Or third. Or fourth. But logic and teenage boys don't usually mix all that well. And so while Jack didn't have any more whiskey that night, or the night after, or the night after that, a pesky thought had begun scratching on the back of his brain, wanting to be let in. Sure, he had done alright with the gauntlet James had thrown down. He'd handled it pretty well, all things considered. But he knew he had grimaced as the last swallow had gone down, grimaced noticeably… and he was pretty sure his father had seen it. Under the triumphant snarl he'd been trying to put on, he was convinced his father had been able to see him wince as the alcohol burned his throat, able to see his eyes start watering as he slammed down the glass. And what would happen if, in the future, somebody else challenged him the same way? What if an older kid at a party threw down the same gauntlet? He didn't know if showing weakness in front of anyone else could be nearly as bad as showing it in front of his father. But he didn't want to find out.

It was Nash's older brother Kevin who gave him the first few bottles. The Carters had a house in a mildly clichéd neighborhood on the other side of the airport, and while it wasn't posh, it did have a basement. This smelled of moth balls, had ugly mustard shag carpet, and mostly hadn't been touched since the 70s, which was why Mrs. Carter had gladly turned it over to her oldest son as a hangout. Mr. Carter was rarely home. Jack liked it that way on principle.

You're outta your mind, Nape, Kevin had said at first. He had called Jack "Nape" ever since the first time he'd come to visit Nash, and it had stuck. You know what kind of deep shit I'd be in if somebody found out I was giving booze to a thirteen-year-old? Crap, I can't even give booze to my seventeen-year-old girlfriend, let alone you.

I can't let my old man see me flinch, Kevin. Kevin had stared at him hard from under a curtain of wavy brown hair.

So to stick it to your old man, who's a drunk, you're gonna learn to drink better than him. Am I getting that straight?

I just want to build up my tolerance. That's all.

Jesus, Nape…. Kevin had slumped on the ratty couch for a few minutes, just looking him over. Finally, he had relented. Just… listen, you ever tell anybody where you got this stuff, and…. He had struggled for an appropriate threat. Jack might have been his kid brother's friend, but he was mature enough for his age that he was practically one of Kevin's buddies as well. Jack had saved him the trouble.

Nobody's gonna know.

Crap…. Kevin had muttered. Then he'd gotten up off the couch. Stay here. I don't want you seeing where we keep the stuff. He'd disappeared into a side room for a few minutes and came back with three bottles – a vodka, a whiskey, and a spiced rum. Okay, Nape. You asked for it. Pick your poison.

And he did.

Jesus, did he.

They had gotten through the vodka as quickly as they could; Jack had spat it out all over the shag carpet the first time he tasted it, Kevin had barked curses like a sailor, and Jack had sworn that unless he was being threatened with death, he'd never drink it again once they'd built up his tolerance to it. It tasted like vomit. Kevin had said that was just fine, because if he spat it on the shag again, he'd have to murder him on principle.

The rum tests went a little better. Jack almost liked it. Almost.

And then, of course, the whiskey. As worried as he had been about it, he actually passed that test with flying colors. Kevin said it was the easiest he'd ever seen a punk his age throw anything back. Jack had grimaced and told him to fill it again. He needed to be sure.

They had done it until Jack could throw anything back like it was water, even if he didn't know in advance what it was. He didn't like any of it. He didn't want any of it. But at least now he knew he could take any of it. And if it had just stayed like that, it might have all been okay. Maybe. It did stay that way for quite a while, almost three years. The knowledge that he could take anything James threw at him gave him enough confidence to soldier on through each day in that house. James could call him whatever names he wanted, but now that he could remind himself of his own capability, he could ignore it. It created an uneasy half-truce between them that survived up until Jack was sixteen – almost seventeen, if they had made it to his birthday – up until the disaster that was the night of the 1999 Valentine's Day Formal.

It had all started well enough, of course – the suit jacket and tie he'd scrounged up at Goodwill had all the Goodwill smell washed out of them, Mags had consented to let Jack borrow her car, and he'd bought a couple of (tiny) rose boutonnieres and a disposable camera (Mags demanded pictures) with money he'd earned as a science tutor. Jack was something of a mystery to a lot of people at Sherrill D. Robinson High – good-looking enough that at least a third of the girls in his junior class (and nearly all the freshmen) had seriously contemplated life as his girlfriend, "dangerous" enough that he ditched class regularly to go smoke with the shop teacher and had several rumors floating around that he was secretly a criminal, and yet smart enough that even with all the ditching, he still banged out high enough grades to pass all his honors classes and make cash on the side tutoring those who couldn't. His lack of conformity to any specific clique was part of his allure; and so when he'd asked sophomore Angie Connelly earlier that week if she was interested in going to the dance, she'd nodded a wide-eyed yes before he'd even leaned fully against her locker, clutching the crucifix on her neck as she did. The Connellys were staunch Catholics and incredibly selective; when Angie told them all about Jack later that night, she made sure to tell the part about his stellar grades and tutoring job at least three times, and conveniently left out the part about the smoking and class-ditching. She'd had no intention of becoming the chorus of a Billy Joel song.

So, she'd gotten a simple lavender sheath dress with a little bolero, and Jack had promised to pick her up at 5:30 for dinner before the dance. And he'd bought the flowers and the camera, and his tie matched her dress, and she'd looked pretty cute standing at her front door, even with her parents eyeing him through the bay window. He'd given them the most trustworthy smile he could muster and then driven straight to the restaurant – a little Italian place that was probably cheap to her but was the best Jack could afford. And he'd thought she looked even cuter then, trying to eat spaghetti without splattering, and her strawberry-blonde hair being perfectly set off by the lavender dress.

That was the best part of the evening. The rest was a complete catastrophe.

Ah, hell. He'd said it before he remembered who he was with; glancing over at the passenger seat, he'd seen Angie turn red at the curse but mercifully, she hadn't reprimanded him.

What? she'd asked. Her cheeks were a sort of pink that said she was shocked by profanity but slightly excited to be in a car with a boy who used it. Jack had made a disgusted face as they had driven back toward the North Point Bridge.

I forgot the da—the stupid tickets.

Oh, she had murmured. Well, that's okay, right? I mean, we can just drop by your house on the way to the school and get them. Jack had felt his stomach lurch. Yeah. Sure. They could just drop by the little concrete block he lived in and hope to God James wasn't on the porch. Right. It was either that or drive Angie back home and make excuses to her parents for getting her dressed up for nothing, because the school wasn't going to let them in without tickets. Their way of keeping out non-students (and those students who were failing too many classes to be allowed admittance). Jack weighed the options. It was hard to know which was worse – letting Angie down, or letting her see his father. Finally, he gritted his teeth. So what if she didn't want to date him anymore afterward? It wasn't like he'd planned on getting serious about her. That's what he told himself as they pulled up to the curb in front of the duplex on 127th.

Listen, Angie, he'd started, not yet taking his hands off the steering wheel. I think you'd be better off waiting in the car. My mom's probably getting ready for work, 'cause they moved her to night shift, and my dad— Well, just… stay here. The whole time he was talking, he had watched her; she'd been looking out the window at the duplex, and when she turned her head back around he had been able to see the mask of politeness close down over the concern and involuntary disgust that had been there. Middle class morality, he had thought ruefully. She didn't even mean to, but it was there on her face anyhow – that silent disapproval of living conditions that were below her standard, and the soft glow of self-righteous pity that usually preceded a moral crusade. She was a nice girl, and she didn't think he was any less attractive for being poor, and she genuinely felt upset that poverty existed, and she wanted to help end it with good Christian charity, and… and it was so… emasculating. Jack had felt his cheeks turning red in spite of himself. He would have preferred it if she had laughed at his house, or something. Anything but that look. Jesus, he hated that look.

Um… Angie had said. Jack had felt his throat clench.

What? He'd asked her even though he figured what she was going to say.

Well, I just hoped I could use your bathroom. I mean, I'd wait until we got to school, but those stalls are so small, and it's kind of hard with a nice dress on…. She had trailed off, seeing the look on his face, but her lower lip was caught just lightly by her teeth and Jack had groaned internally. He might have been able to talk her into waiting if she hadn't done that.

Shit, he had murmured at the steering wheel. Then he had grabbed the keys. Yeah. Sure. Let's just do this quick, mmm?

In and out. Scout's honor. And she had smiled.

He had tried to prepare her on the way up the sidewalk. It's not that I don't want you in my house, it's just… my dad is a lot to handle, okay? So don't… don't let him freak you out. Angie had nodded like a brave little soldier. And Jack had fervently hoped that James was in bed early today, which sometimes happened.

Mags had met them at the door – she must have seen the car pull up. Her mouth was open already but Jack cut her off. Forgot the tickets, Ma. Gotta hurry. Angie is just gonna visit the powder room while I grab them, and then we're out again. And he had put his hands on Angie's shoulders and tried to herd her quickly through the living room to the hallway, before she could see all the empty bottles or choke on the stale cigarette smoke. If he could get her to the door of the bathroom, run in his room and grab the tickets off the dresser, and get her out of the bathroom in under five minutes, then maybe—

You didn't tell me we were going to have company, SON.

Jack had frozen in the entrance to the hallway, his hand on Angie's shoulder. James was in the armchair (when was he anywhere else?) nursing a mostly-gone cigarette and a half-empty bottle; the television wasn't on, and if he hadn't spoken, Jack wouldn't have known he was there. Jack had cringed.

We're just getting the tickets, DAD. It had come out as a sneer. Not staying. They had tried a few more steps toward the bathroom and bedroom; behind them, James had burped obnoxiously.

This one's cute. Better than the last broad you dragged home. That bitch looked like my old CO in drag. A pause. She wasn't in drag, was she? Of course, James hadn't waited for an answer; instead, he had cackled at his own joke, indifferent to anyone else's reaction. Jack had torn his eyes away from his bedroom. Mags was standing by the front door, a hand cupped over her mouth apologetically. Angie's face was turning a remarkable shade of maroon, and she was trying to look at him without meeting his eyes. Jack had given her a gentle push in the direction of the bathroom, trying not to think about the color his own face probably was. Meanwhile, James had gone plowing onward. At least this one's not in drag, that's obvious. She's got too many nice curvy bits. Here, he had tossed his cigarette butt indifferently over his shoulder, leaving Mags to scramble and stomp it out before it ignited the carpet. Well, bring her over here, he had growled. Let me get a good look at the cutecouple, hmm? Jack had fought his instincts and tried to ignore him, giving Angie another soft nudge.

Come on, he had whispered to her. Let's get—

NOW, you little pussy! I said COME.

Jack had gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt; looking down at Angie, he'd given her the most desperately apologetic face he could muster and then glanced over his shoulder at James. He couldn't see his father's face, but he'd been able to see the hand on the chair's arm, tapping its fingers expectantly. Jack had dithered, hoping Mags might come up with something to rescue them. Hey, PENCIL-dick! James had barked, and Angie had jumped a little. Her face was now completely scarlet. But there had been nothing to be done about it. With a shaking hand on Angie's shoulder, Jack had led her over to the cigarette littered area of the carpet just to the side of the TV. It was the place where he'd had to pick up glass shards through his tears as a child, and at the moment, he was feeling a humiliating wave of déjà vu. James looked them both over, nodding as if satisfied.

Oh, yeah. Much better than last time. Your taste is improving, Jacky-boy. I expect you not to waste my car tonight, you copy? He had taken a long swig then, and Jack had tried not to look at how mortified Angie was becoming.

It's not your car. It's Mom's. And we're leaving now. YOU copy? Come on, Ang—

Now just a damn minute, SON, James had rumbled. Everything in this fucking house is mine. Know how I figure that? Because I paid an arm and a leg for it. Well, at least a leg. He had wiggled his stump then at Angie, who turned her face. Got it? And if I want to give you some fatherly advice, I expect you to stand still for it. Another drink. So. You plan to get laid tonight?

James! Margaret had hissed from across the room. James had ignored her.

No, it's okay, you can tell me. Actually, I'd encourage it. A good screwing is what you probably need. Maybe it'd help your balls finish dropping. He had finished off the bottle then, and he'd tossed it away; it had broken somewhere near the couch, but Angie was the only one who flinched. She'd looked like she was about to cry. Jack had balled up his fists.

Just shut up, okay? You're upsetting her.

Hell, it was a compliment, babe, James had grinned up at Angie, as though that was supposed to placate her. Thaw out. I just said you were hot enough to screw my son. That last one wasn't. He had leaned in conspiratorially and whispered to her, a loud stage whisper that missed no one. I personally think she was a lesbian. Sitting back in his chair, he'd burped again and looked up into Angie's now-blanched face. You're not a lesbian, are you? He had looked her up and down – and then his eyes had frozen on the chain around her neck. Oh, no, I get it. You're not a dyke, you're just locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Jesus, kid, why do you have to keep bringing home girls you can't fuck? He had inexplicably produced another bottle from somewhere around his chair, and he was now preparing to start on it in earnest. You're not trying to avoid it, are you?

Come on, let's get out of here, Jack had started.

Hey, if you can't get it up, that's one thing, but at least be honest about it. Myself, I've never had that problem, but there's no shame in going to the doctor if it doesn't work. Unless it does work, and you're just queer. You're not a fag, are you, Jack?

We're leaving now, Jack had growled, the warning rumble starting to bubble up in his throat. He had taken Angie by the arm and begun to pull her away from James's territory. Across the room, Mags was tiptoeing out of his bedroom, the tickets held out in front of her. It was the only way she could help. Jack had reached out one long arm and grabbed the two squares of pink cardstock, shoving them into his breast pocket quickly as he tugged at Angie gently again. She had whimpered and started to follow him.

Mmmh!

The gasp had come out of Angie as sharply as if she had been hit, and Jack had whirled around. His father had Angie by the wrist, not squeezing hard enough to hurt her but clearly not intending to let go.

NOT so fast, hot stuff. C'mere. And because it was either comply or let him dislocate Angie's arm, Jack had complied. They had both shuffled the three or four steps back to the designated spot in front of James's chair, Angie looking at the hand on her wrist the way she might look at a venomous snake, and Jack's eyes beginning to burn with a black fire. James had spoken without letting go of Angie's arm. Okay, give it to me straight, dollface. Are you going to this dance with my son because he's a stud, and you'd like to ruin your reputation with him, or are you going because he's your fag friend and you're going to spend the evening talking about which Backstreet Boy you think is cuter? And tell the truth, sweetheart. Don't dance around the question.

I—

Angie, you don't have to answer him, Jack had attempted. Let's g—

Oh, no you don't, smart-ass. Let the lady talk.

I… Mr. Napier, I don't—

Never mind, James had interrupted, waving his free hand dismissively. That's too big of a question, us just meeting and all. Don't worry. I'll figure it out. He'll come out eventually, they always do. Nah, you just go to that dance and do whatever it is you planned to do. I keep asking questions, it might get you all worked up and then you'll be too jittery to put out, for my son or anybody else. Tell you what. Truce. I'll even give you a peace offering. Give the old man a hug, hmm? He had held out his free arm then, as if offering an actual embrace. Jack didn't trust him, but as he still had hold of Angie's arm, they had little choice. Angie had looked as if she were about to cry, but she had bravely leaned down anyway, squinching her eyes up tightly. And for a few seconds, it had looked like James was actually going to hug her. Right up until she shrieked.

Aaahhhhck!

HAHAHAHAHaHaHaHahahahahaHaHA! James had descended into gales of laughter as Angie had jumped back in horror, both arms wrapped tightly over her left breast, on which James had gotten an excellent grip before letting her go. She really had started crying, then. Jack had stared first at her, and then at his father, dumbfounded. There had been a grand list of horrible things he had expected his father to do; this wasn't on it. This was an unexpected bit of variety on James's part. Jack had felt every muscle in his face begin to harden into concrete. James had kept laughing. Woo-hoo….HAHaHaha! Aww, come on, sweetheart! All in good fun! Or are Catholics not allowed to have fun? He took a swig from the new bottle, some of it spilling down his face. Okay. Tell you what, he had sputtered placatingly. I'll fix it. Can't have any stains of sexual immorality on your record, yeah? Well, then, let's just BAPTIZE you AGAIN! And THAT…will COVER…EVERYthing! And as he spat out the last sentence, James had swung the bottle in Angie's direction three times. Each pass had left a long, linear spatter across the front of her dress. She had been crying so hard by then that she didn't even move out of his way; she had simply looked over at Jack like a sad lamb asking why it was being slaughtered. That had been the last straw.

Before he had calculated what he was doing, Jack had reached over and yanked the bottle out of his father's hands. That's fucking ENOUGH. I'll deal with you when I get home. Come on, Angie. His father had stopped laughing abruptly when Jack had taken the bottle, and now he was attempting to swipe at him, reaching to get it back. He leaned even further as Jack marched Angie out of his reach.

Don't you talk to me like that, you little piss-ant. Come BACK here! This is MY damn house, and—

Thump. Jack had turned just in time to see James hit the floor. He had leaned a smidgen too far and had fallen completely out of his armchair. Failing to get himself back up unassisted, he had rolled over and was now railing and cursing on the carpet, calling Jack and Angie every vile thing he could think of. Jack had felt something snap.

I SAID ENOUGH! FUCKING ENOUGH! he had screamed; and without thinking, he threw the bottle in James's general direction. It shattered on the base of the TV and showered James with whiskey and glass. Without looking back, Jack had yanked Angie's arm and then they were gone.

They had made a beeline for the car, then, neither of them speaking, and Jack was almost in the driver's seat when he realized that Angie was still standing outside, looking at the passenger door but not getting in. Shit, he had mumbled, and had gotten out to see what was wrong.

I— My dress…. Your seat…, she had stuttered. Jack had tried to wave it off.

Don't worry about that, okay? Not the first time this car's smelled like whiskey. Let's just get you out of here. When she didn't move, Jack had started to open the door for her. Then he had noticed it – the somewhat lighter stain trickling down the lavender satin of the back of her dress, something that he knew was not whiskey. Ah, hell, he had sighed.

I… I tried to hold it, b-but… he… just…. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and she had finally just plopped her face into her hands and given herself over to sobbing. Jack could tell by the color her forehead was turning that she was some toxic combination of scared, mortified, and completely in shock.

Hey, he had started, and made an effort to put an arm around her. She flinched away.

No! I— Just…. More sobs. Jack had raked his fingers through his hair, desperate for something to do, and trying to figure out how he was going to fix this one. He couldn't buy her a new dress, nor could they clean that one in time. And he wasn't even certain she was emotionally stable enough to go to the dance now.

I'm gonna kill him, he had heard himself mutter. I'm gonna kill that bastard. Come on. Don't worry about the seats. We'll take care of it. Angie's sobs had changed tone then, and she had tried to stifle them enough to talk through her hands.

Just… just take me to Heather's house. Heather Brooks. You know her. She's in your history class. I can't go home in this dress. She might have something I can wear.

Angie, listen. I'm really sorr—

Just… just take me to Heather's.

And that had been the end of the conversation. He had driven her back across the bridge to a little blue house in Northside. They were silent the whole way. Her friend Heather had come out on the grey wood porch when Jack honked the horn, safety pins in her mouth and foam separators between her freshly painted toes. Angie had gotten out of the car without saying anything, although Jack had managed to hand her one of the tickets before she stumbled up the walk like a person in shock. He had watched the two girls meet on the porch steps, watched the look of incredulity on Heather's face as she heard the story turning to righteous indignation as she glanced over her shoulder at Jack and his car. He had taken that as a cue and had driven away slowly, heading in the direction of the school and not knowing why he was bothering. It wasn't just that he had ruined his date's evening; girls kept all kinds of clothes they never wore, and he figured Heather would dress her up like Cinderella and get her to the dance in style. He expected nothing less. It was worse than that. Angie might get to the dance, but so would the story of what happened – not the very worst part, that was only for Heather's ears. But everything about his father would be repeated to their circle of girlfriends. And a less detailed version would be spread to every other girl in school, who would in turn hand an even less accurate version to their boyfriends, and by next week, he would be public enemy number one. He would now and forever be the guy who brought a nice Catholic girl into his horrible house and handed her over to his father for torture. Forget ever taking Angie out again. He'd never be able to so much as breathe near any girl who was in Angie's circle of friends. Going to the dance was the least of his worries. And it would be pointless. Because he'd be going in alone, and he'd have to spend the whole night with a cup of punch in his hand, standing in the corner and feeling the eyes of the whole student body shooting daggers at him.

He had turned all this over in his mind a few times by the time he had parked behind the gym. There had been kids getting out of cars all around him, taking pictures before the sun went down, girls comparing dresses, guys trying to figure out how to pin roses. He had even seen Angie and Heather from a distance, getting out of a car with Justin (their actual gay friend); Heather had put Angie in a red halter dress, fixed her makeup, and even found matching shoes. But he could still see the nervous tension in the way she walked. Jack had sat in his car for at least ten minutes, just watching everyone, deciding whether going in was worth it, tapping his ticket nervously against the steering wheel. It was fifteen minutes after the dance had started when he finally convinced himself to just deal with the angry mob and go in. Let them crucify him if they wanted. At least it would relieve some tension.

TAPTAPTAP!

Jack had nearly jumped out of his skin. Nash was rapping his knuckles against the driver's side window, pulling a face. When he saw Jack looking, he had motioned for him to crank the window. Jack had obliged.

So, what's this I hear about you desecrating the Virgin Angela, huh? And not even in, like, the fun way, man. Shit, if you're gonna ruin a girl, at least get laid in the process.

Go to hell, Jack had said, dropping his head against the seat. It was worse than he'd thought. It had only taken fifteen minutes for the story to get around. A big deal was being made about the Internet being the fast new way of communicating, but high schoolers made that network look like snail mail. Nash had shrugged it off.

You don't wanna go in there, man. It's like one of the levels of Dante's inferno. For you, anyway. Besides. Party sucks. They're playing Boyz II Men like they're going outta style, and the punch tastes like Pepto. Not a single decent song since I got here, and I heard somebody requesting Dre, so it's only gonna get worse. He had been joined then by their mutual friend D.J., who was holding something that looked suspiciously like a flask inside his jacket. Nash had stuck his head inside the car then. We're ditching. Wanna come? Kevin's got some of his college friends over tonight, and the 'rents are both out the whole weekend, so you don't even have to go home tonight.

WAAAY better party than here, dude, D.J. had added. Jack had thought about it. It was either go in that gym and be socially crucified for three hours, or go sit in the Carters' basement and watch Kevin's friends (and D.J.) get plastered and puke on the shag. Or….

Or he could get plastered himself.

It had been an entirely new thought to Jack – maybe it was because of everything he'd seen his father do while drunk, or maybe it was the memory of the way it burned his throat and stomach, but he'd never really comprehended why people would voluntarily get intoxicated. Until right then. Suddenly all he could think of doing was going up to Kevin, asking for the strongest stuff he had, and just drinking it until the details of that afternoon got fuzzy around the edges. It was dumb. It was incredibly dumb. But it was a persuasive little thought, and Jack had only tossed it around for a minute before turning the car back on.

Yeah. Sure. Anything's better than going home.

And that was almost true. Except it wasn't. He understood that with incredible clarity in the years that followed; many things would have been better than going home… but this wasn't one of them.

Jack had pulled up to the curb outside the Carter house as the streetlights were coming on. There had only been a handful of cars, but Nash had reminded him that college students piled in five to a car most of the time, so that wasn't a good gauge of population. The living room had confirmed that; there had been jackets, coats, flannel shirts, and a few duffel bags scattered around the living room, one olive drab jacket even tossed nonchalantly over the television, and Jack could see at least five coolers through the kitchen doorway as they hung a right and headed down the stairs to the basement. Silverchair could be heard blaring all the way up the staircase, and there had been a noticeable whiff of marijuana floating on the sound waves. Jack had wrinkled his nose but kept walking. He had suddenly felt his youth very obviously, and had wondered how Kevin's friends would take the addition of three high schoolers to their party. He needn't have worried, though.

NAPE! Kevin had bellowed as they had cleared the stairs, one arm around his girlfriend and the other outstretched with a Bud at the end. The room had been filled with a soft yellow glow from the lamps and the shag, and about twenty people had been sitting around in various stages of intoxication; the movie Dead Man On Campus had been playing on the ancient TV set, but nobody had really been watching it except one guy on the couch corner who looked stoned out of his mind. Kevin had promptly dropped his girlfriend into a ratty armchair and had mounted the bottom stair just as Jack and his friends came off it.

'Eeeeeyyyy, everybody! he had pronounced; about half the room had actually looked. May I present my kid brother Nash… and his ultra-cool friend Nape… and… actually I have no idea who that kid is, but he's with Nape, so I guess he's cool! He had waved his Bud in D.J.'s direction, and D.J. had returned the gesture with a wave of his flask. And that had been that. Jack had suddenly found himself in the middle of the stained couch with the stoned guy (whose name was Matt) on one side and Kevin on the other (plus Kevin's girlfriend on his lap). Somebody had peeled his suit jacket off him and spirited it away upstairs while he was crossing the room. The table in front of them was stacked to the point of collapse with pizzas, beers, a couple of liquor bottles, and a scattering of joints and loose marijuana. One or two of the joints had still been smoking subtly, put down and forgotten by their owners. Nash had been somewhere off to the side, telling Kevin the basic outline of what had happened with Angie, but Jack had barely heard him over the ringing in his ears. He had tuned back in just in time to hear Kevin saying, Jesus, Nape. I mean, I knew the old man was a piece of work, but… Jesus.

Yeah. It was all Jack had been able to say. His throat had suddenly felt very dry, like it wanted to seal up like concrete. Matt the stoner had been holding out a slice of pizza for him, but he had ignored it. Kevin must have caught the look on his face, because he had put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

Listen, kid, you've gotta get out of there. I mean, I can't guarantee anything long term, but I'm sure if we explained to Mom what the deal was, she'd let you crash in the basement here—

Can't leave my mom, Jack had mumbled. And it was true. Jack probably would have been crashing with somebody a long time before that if he wasn't scared of what James would do to Margaret without him there to take the brunt of the punishment. Kevin had kept an understanding silence for a moment. Then, he had cleared his throat hesitantly.

Well …listen. I mean, I know you don't really drink, but if you want a beer or something, I'll grab you one that's not open… or there may be some Coke in the fridge – He had been searching around the table, trying to see if there were any beers that hadn't been partially consumed, when it had happened. Jack had reached past him, grabbed the mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels from the corner of the table, and turned it up to his lips. It had been half gone before anybody had comprehended what was going on. Then Nash had whistled softly, and Kevin had put a hand slowly over his mouth. His girlfriend had just gaped. It was Matt the stoner who finally broke the silence.

Ha…. Right on, man!

Jack had sat quietly for a few seconds, waiting to speak until the fire in his throat had died down. I need to call Mom. Let her know I'll be here tonight. He figured he'd do that now, while he was sober, so she wouldn't hear it in his voice. And the buzz would maybe start kicking in right around the time he hung up. Kevin pointed out the beige phone blending in with the beige wall by the stairs. Jack took the bottle with him when he crossed the room.

Ma? Yeah, it's Jack. …No, everything's fine. …Yeah. Her friend had a dress she could wear. Listen, Ma, I'm gonna stay at Nash's place tonight, okay? …Well, does Kevin count as an adult? …Twenty-five…. …Yeah, I know, but Kevin's okay, Ma. Honest. He ordered pizza. We'll be okay. …Ma… hey, Ma, are you okay? …No, no…d— Don't…. Don't cry, Ma, okay? It's not your fault. He wasn't an abusive drunk bastard when you married him. That's his own damn fault. …Yeah, okay, sorry. But don't you cry over today. That's between me and him. Okay? …Yeah, I know. Look, call me if you need me, okay? He gets too much for you to handle, and I'll come home. …I will. …Yeah. Love you too, Ma.

He had expected to feel it by then, but when he put the phone back in the cradle he was as steady as ever. All he felt was an unpleasant little flame in his stomach and the incredibly present reality of everything that had happened. He had dropped back onto the couch with a sigh, staring at the bottle he was holding.

I thought this stuff was supposed to make you forget crap you wanted to forget.

Kevin had looked up from picking a wayward pepperoni off his striped sweater. Yeah, well, you gotta drink enough of it first, Nape.

How much is enough?

Well, uhm… that sort of depends on the person. He had picked fuzz off the pepperoni, shrugged, and eaten it anyway. Nash would already be dizzy, with what you chugged. Me, I'd need a few more drinks. You… I dunno, you feeling anything?

Not a damn thing.

Then I'd suggest the whole bottle. If…. He had hesitated then, looking up from his pizza and meeting Jack's eyes. I mean, if getting drunk is what you actually want to do. Is it, Nape? Is that what you really want to do? Because…. Jesus, kid, I'll be a bad influence all day long. I'll give you pot, I'll buy you liquor, I'll help you get laid, but I draw the line at assisted suicide. So I have to ask. Your old man is a disgusting, abusive drunk who just got done spraying your girlfriend with whiskey and humiliating you royally. So. You getting drunk to deal with that. Is that what you really want to do?

Yeah. I really do.

And he really did.

It had taken him the rest of that bottle to really get going, but once he did, the whole basement had become a pleasant little bowl of golden Jell-O through which Jack had found himself swimming. He had moved on to the rum, then, and although at first he could still hear James yelling in the back of his head, he had felt sufficiently like a pirate that he had started not to care. Things had started to be funny again, which was good, because D.J. and Nash were by then in the middle of trying to sing the Pokémon theme song, much to the amusement of the handful of college students who hadn't passed out or scurried away to have sex in another room. Kevin was in the armchair, making out with his girlfriend. And Jack thought maybe he had been making out with the college girl in the black tights (was her name Claire?), but he couldn't be sure.

And mercifully, by the end of the bottle of rum, he wasn't sure what he'd been so upset about, either. Everything was just …fine.

Jack stared down at the bottle in his hand as if it were full of scorpions – and at the same time, he felt the twitch in his arm, as if his hand wanted to move of its own accord and open the bottle in that old, practiced motion. That twitch terrified him, and he thrust the bottle away from him in a panic, sending it scooting across the counter to stop near the sink. Jack backed up against the kitchen doorframe, his fingers digging into his hair. What the hell had he been thinking? What the actual hell had he been thinking?

You weren't, he heard whispered somewhere in his head. Isn't that exactly the point?

"Shit," Jack whispered. That was the point. There hadn't been any thinking involved for a long time, had there? It was all instinct, right down to opening the bottle. Even in the middle of watching his wife pack up her half of the house, in the middle of her eviscerating him with her remarks because of the damn alcohol, there his arm was, twitching and tingling, ready to open the stuff and make it worse. It had become an instinct, and that was the most disgusting thing he could imagine. No, he amended. The word "instinct" was too noble.

It had become a habit. He was a drunk.

Just like his father.

No, the voice whispered. Not just like your father. He at least managed to keep his wife through most of it, didn't he? So I guess that means you're worse. Jack's face suddenly drained of blood. It was true. All of it. And he would finally have to admit it to himself, because this time, there would be no Jeannie there to smooth his hair and tell him he "was just sick," and that he'd beat it. There would be no convincing himself that sure, he liked a drink and a smoke, but he certainly wasn't his father. Because he was. He had done exactly what he had told himself he could never do. He hadn't just developed a little problem coping with his past. He was a drunk.

"I'm a fucking drunk," he whispered incredulously. From the corner where she was stacking Tupperware bowls, Jeannie snorted her contempt.

"Are you just now figuring that out?"

He wasn't, of course. But figuring it out and admitting it were very definitely two different things.

Nape.

Some mumbling. A dull, swirling, yellow sort of ache sloshing around his ears like a tide.

Wake up, Nape. Your mom just called. A couple words there he recognized. Groaning, slowly testing rubbery limbs to see if they would move.

Mmm?

Jack Napier woke up just before eleven o'clock the Saturday morning after Kevin Carter's party, stretched full length on the tattered couch. His face had been pressed into the crack between the cushion and the couch arm, and it had felt like the weave of the upholstery had been embedding itself quietly into his cheek. He had stared at it for a few minutes while he tried to register the voice that was talking to him; it was some color between salmon and cinnamon, with little pills of fuzz growing out of it like tiny mushrooms. The longer he had stared at them, the more they had actually looked like mushrooms. Then he had thought about the taste of mushrooms and almost barfed. Thankfully, he'd managed to hold it back.

Wha? he'd finally managed to say, and he'd even gotten one eye turned in a direction other than the couch. He could see what he assumed was Kevin's leg, meaning Kevin must have been sitting on the couch arm. A mild tap on his shoulder had confirmed that suspicion.

I said, your mom called. It's almost eleven. She was wanting to know when you'd be home today. Don't worry, I put on my best Responsible Adult voice. I told her you and Nash stayed up half the night with me watching movies, and that you were both still asleep, but that I'd feed you and send you home when you were awake enough to drive. Jack figured he must have mumbled something that Kevin interpreted, because Kevin had continued with a reply. Yeah, she's fine. You don't have to hurry. Actually, I don't think you're capable of hurrying. You put away more booze last night than the veteran college drinkers. You sit up, you're gonna discover one hell of a hangover. That hadn't sounded right to Jack, of course; how could he have a hangover? Hangovers were for drunk people. And he hadn't been that drunk. Had he? He didn't entirely remember, but it didn't seem likely that he, Jack Napier, would get drunk enough to be badly hungover. Maybe a little out of it, maybe a little thirsty, but nothing major. He sat up.

That was a mistake.

Nnnnnnhhhhhhhhh….

Told ya.

Jack had let himself drop back against the couch, shutting his eyes as soon as he had opened them. He couldn't look to see where Kevin or Nash were. It had hurt too much to move his eyes. And although he'd been decidedly sure his head was lying still on the back of the couch, it had felt like it kept moving for a few seconds after he'd dropped it there. He had lifted his arms a few experimental inches and found that all his movements had the same weird blowback. Like everything kept wobbling after his brain told him it had stopped. He had groaned, tried to open his mouth, and found it was dried shut.

Mouth feels like the Sahara, doesn't it? Kevin had said from somewhere across the room. His voice had vibrated as if the air was some thicker kind of fluid, transferring the sound in globs that sent ripples across Jack's ears. Jack had managed to crack his mouth open and lift his head in an attempt to answer when his stomach had suddenly lurched sideways. He'd barely managed to slap a hand over his mouth before he'd slid into the floor, vomiting into an empty cooler that had been left beside the table. It had burned like battery acid coming up. When he'd finally dragged himself upright again, Kevin had been standing over him, dangling a bottle of water from between his fingers. Here. Chug this. Lemme know when you're ready for bottle number two. Jack had grabbed for the bottle like he was dying and guzzled it. His stomach had immediately lurched in protest. The nausea was deafening, and even after Kevin had helped him back up onto the couch, he couldn't find a single position in which he could sit that would make his gut stop doing somersaults. He had finally settled for half leaning, half sitting in the corner of the couch, nursing the water bottle like baby formula and holding a pillow in front of him like a shield. That had gone on for a few more bottles of water, until Jack's bladder had begged him to stop – although his mouth felt like he could drink the whole North River and still not be wet enough again. He'd watched as Kevin had gone across the room, heard Nash grumbling sleepily from somewhere off to the left, closed his eyes again. His eyeballs had felt like they would explode from the motion. Eventually, Kevin had disappeared upstairs for a while – Jack guessed he was probably doing something with the vomit-filled cooler – and had come back about thirty minutes later holding something in each hand. Jack hadn't looked too closely until Kevin had plopped one of the objects down on the couch arm in front of him.

'S this? he had heard himself mumble.

Breakfast of champions, kid. Kevin had wandered off to the other end of the room, dropped the other object in front of Nash, and come back. French fries, courtesy of Old Man Koslowski's snack bar. One pound of pure, unadulterated potatoes and grease. Best medicine for a hangover in the whole city of Gotham. Eat up, Nape.

Jack had picked at the fries dubiously for a minute or two – the whole idea of eating, ever again, made Jack's stomach wiggle uncomfortably – but he had finally dragged one fat, greasy French fry out of the pile and shoved it into his mouth. It went down with some protest, but the next one was easier. Once he was able to eat more than one fry at a time without puking, Kevin had joined him on the couch and patted him softly on the shoulder.

Congratulations, Nape. You've passed Hangover 101. Welcome to the graduates' club.

Hip hip hooray, Jack had grumbled, which had made Kevin grin. He had opened a Coke for himself, then, and put his feet up on the cluttered table.

Now. You finish those fries, keep them down, and prove to me you can walk more than thirty feet without puking, and I'll send you home with a Star Student ribbon and a peppermint. They had continued like that in silence for a few minutes, Kevin drinking his Coke and Jack swallowing half-chewed fries, with Nash's wobbly movements on the other side of the basement the only sound to be heard. Then Jack had swallowed a particularly thick fry and turned to Kevin, his face slack.

I didn't sleep with anybody, did I?

Kevin had stared at him for a second, just long enough for Jack to get worried. Then Kevin had spit Coke and dissolved into wet, sputtering laughter.

And that was it. Not the whole story, oh, no. The whole story was much longer and darker than Jack ever wanted to sit and read all the way through. But that was how it had started, chapter one of the diary of debauchery that became Jack Napier's life. Having been nursed through his first real hangover by Kevin Carter, Jack had made it home that day just fine. And he had thought, like he'd thought every other time he'd taken a drink to spite his father, that if it had stopped there, it would have been the end of it. And it had been true – every time before that one. Up until then, every drink could have been the last one. If any of those drinks had been the end of it, the story would never have been written. But although Jack didn't know it that afternoon as he pulled the car back up in front of the duplex on 127th street, the ink was already drying on the first chapter of a story he would come to hate. It didn't get written overnight, of course; the confrontation with James about Angie and the whiskey never came, and Jack and Margaret went on about their lives with very little difference – and Jack was pretty sure Mags never even knew he'd been hungover. The story hadn't been written that day, or the next. But James was still James.

And the next time Jack went to Nash and Kevin's house to vent about what James had said and done that day, he had accepted a bottle of whiskey to go with his story.

The next time he had to step between his father and mother to keep James's fists off Margaret's face, it was a joint offered by Matt the stoner that had helped him calm down.

And the next night he spent away from home to avoid James's screaming, he spent in Kevin's basement with that college girl Claire and a sizeable helping of Jack Daniels, and this time, he was perfectly aware of making out with her. And then some.

Thus, the Jack Napier who graduated from Sherrill D. Robinson High on May 20th, 2000, left the gymnasium with a leather-bound diploma, a 3.2 GPA, and half-full flask hidden under his robe. James didn't come to the ceremony (to everyone's relief), but he'd given Jack such an infuriating speech before they'd left the house that Jack had gone through the first half of his emergency stash while standing in line. Nobody noticed – it wasn't enough to even get him buzzed anymore. Just enough to take the edge off.

But he thought maybe Mags could smell it on his breath when she greeted him with a hug after they tossed their caps. What else would make her grimace like that? He'd felt bad about that part, about seeing her look at him with the same suspicious eyes she'd turned on James so many years before. But then the moment had passed, and she had dutifully taken pictures of him with Nash and D.J. on her disposable camera, and said hello to the Carters, and talked about where the boys were going to go to college, like a good parent should. Nothing was said about it. They didn't need to. Her eyes had said enough.

Her eyes had hurt worse than anything James had said that morning.

Jack had dulled the pain with what was left in the flask. Then he had gone to Nash's graduation party and dulled it some more. And before he knew it, the second chapter was written.

And so it went. Nash was going to school at his dad's alma mater somewhere down in Pennsylvania, and D.J. was joining the army, so Jack had been headed to Gotham State as the lone representative of the trio. But he had found one guy from Robinson who was going to GSU – Ryder Wolfe, who he'd met at Nash's graduation party, telling drunken stories in a Sean Connery voice between drinks of Captain Morgan – and they had decided to room together. They'd also decided to get drunk together on a regular basis that summer. Ryder's mother was pretty well-off, so he always had money for the good stuff. And he was funny. Funniest guy Jack had ever met. Which meant there were always so many girls flocking around him that Jack could just take his pick. And he had thought he'd made just about the best roommate decision he could have possibly made.

And by the time he loaded his bags into the back of Ryder's convertible to leave for college, he was an alcoholic in full denial. James had been sitting on the porch, yelling slurred insults and saluting the two of them with his middle finger as Jack had kissed his mother on the cheek and then hopped in the car, telling Ryder to floor the gas. Jack had hoped Mags couldn't smell the whiskey that was already on his breath at ten in the morning. Deep down, he knew she could.

Deeper down, he was starting not to care.

A third chapter added to the story.

Their first night in the dorms became chapter four, in which they christened their tiny corner room in McMahan Hall by going through several bottles of Jim Beam and accidentally breaking a window. Luckily the RA, Clayton, was persuaded to take care of the window without disciplinary action – in exchange for a share of the refreshments. They gladly obliged.

Then there was chapter five, in which Jack was introduced to Ray and Samar, the guys across the hall. Ray had a proclivity for prescription meds which Jack (mercifully) turned down. Samar always had pot. That, Jack was much more interested in. Samar's dad was some kind of big-shot research doctor at Gotham General, and he spent the Doc's money freely on the highest quality weed. Of course, he used so much of it himself that half the time, he had no idea what was going on in conversations around him. Ray had to translate for him. But nobody minded. Not as long as he kept bringing pockets full of good times.

And by the end of his first semester at GSU, Jack Napier was an addict as well as an alcoholic. True to form, he still managed to go to class most days, and he somehow kept his head above water enough to keep his scholarship. But the story was still writing itself. And by now, it was long enough to start looking like a book. A book which Jack quietly placed on a shelf where he didn't have to look at it. Looking at it made the drinking a lot less enjoyable. But while he went on getting drunk, getting high, getting laid, the story went on getting longer. Chapters added themselves without Jack realizing it. They piled up softly, not calling attention to themselves, their only noticeable effect the weight they put on Jack's shoulders. But of course, he spent too much time being numb to feel it. The chapters he was adding were way too much fun.

Like the time he had sex with that theatre major right there under the stairs in the Massengill Communications Building. There had been work-study students in the box office on the other side of the stairwell wall, ten feet away, but that had been part of the thrill.

Or the night he did cocaine for the first time before going to a bonfire at Morgan's Bluff, the forested hill west of campus where all the college kids went to be uncivilized. He'd gotten into a fight with some jerk who was feeling up a scared and obviously underage girl and had nearly beaten him unconscious with a piece of wood from a palette they were burning. He hadn't remembered picking up the plank, but there you had it – he had the splinters in his hand to prove it, so he must have done it. Ryder had told him all about it. He had been flying too high to care.

By February, he had gotten them kicked out of McMahan for alcohol infractions. Ryder had tried to negotiate with the administration for him, but when they refused to budge, he had picked up and moved with him to the third floor of Kane. Jack had laughed so hard he felt like pissing himself. To him, it was all a big farce. Everything was, by then.

It was around then, near the end of his freshman year, that the group he collectively called The Posse began to coalesce. They had started calling Ryder "Den Mother," because while the rest of them were so hammered or stoned that they couldn't walk, Ryder always kept himself one degree below baked – just sober enough to make sure the others didn't get themselves killed. Samar had earned the nickname "Dormouse," after a series of days when he just sat in stoned silence, only participating in conversations once every hour or so when he woke up enough to mutter some random sentence before sliding back into his high. Ray was just Ray. Or Rhodes, his last name. And then, there was Jack, who by then had begun to collect a variety of nicknames. Sometimes he was "Jack-a-Nape," sometimes "Class Clown," and once or twice "that Joker kid" by some people they didn't really know. The theatre major he'd slept with a few times called him "the Clown Prince." He had accepted all of them with equal nonchalance and a good laugh. That had become his whole personality – everything was funny, to Jack Napier. Everything was funny with Jack Napier. That had eventually become an established fact, even outside his circle of friends. He was the campus comedian. And he was good at it.

For instance, there was the afternoon the whole campus had been treated to his aggressive brand of humor. Jack and Samar had gotten pleasantly high after class that day (and Samar had already been getting high when he should have been in class). They hadn't been stoned to the point of having to stay in their room, just enough that everything was dreadfully amusing and neither of them had any concept of boundaries. At about five o'clock when the Caf started serving dinner, they had put on dark sunglasses and strolled across the street from dorm side to center campus feeling like Jay and Silent Bob. They had felt the universe was working in their favor upon walking in and discovering the menu that evening was breakfast for dinner.

Oh, hell, yeah! Brinner! Jack had announced loudly in the Caf lobby.

Brinner, man… it's like… they knew we were coming….

Shit, they made it for us, bro. Come on, let's go eat the fuck out of that Brinner.

And so, they had marched through the buffet lines and arrived at the table with two plates each loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast with butter, jam, and Nutella, and piles of link sausages. Campus food wasn't normally exciting and generally tasted a bit like seasoned cardboard, but in their condition, it had been like a banquet on Mount Olympus. They'd been halfway through their mountain of breakfast goodies when they'd heard her.

Laugh Cannon.

In the four years Jack spent at GSU, he never actually found out her name. Laugh Cannon was what the whole campus called her, and that was the name that stuck. She was a big girl – not fat, exactly, but tall and broad like a football player. Actually, she was bigger than some of GSU's football players. A Viking. And she had the most massively explosive laugh Jack (or anyone) had ever heard. Outdoors, her laughter could be heard at least three campus buildings away from her location; indoors, she rattled windows. It carried over the noise of a basketball game in the gym, and could totally drown out a guest lecturer in the auditorium, always the same huge BWA – WAH – WAH – WAH that moved through the air like seismic ripples. Which was exactly what had happened that afternoon in the Caf. Her laugh had hit them like a tsunami. Sober Jack would have probably nudged Samar and talked him into moving to a table across the dining hall.

Stoned Jack decided to fight fire with fire.

FUCK! he had screamed. There was a tiny silence amid the chatter, and then people resumed their conversations. So did Laugh Cannon.

SHIT! he tried. The same reaction, but this time, a longer pause. And so it had gone on, for a good fifteen minutes at least; every time Jack heard Laugh Cannon's booming guffaws over the noise, he would scream something – anything – in the direction of her table. At first it was only Samar who was aware of what he was doing, and he had laughed so hard that he'd almost choked on his bacon; but gradually, the people at the tables around them had become cognizant of Jack's antics, and the conversations had slowly turned to whispered discussions of the potential outcome. The things he had yelled had been indiscriminate and random – ranging from song lyrics to vulgarities to vive la France, finally culminating in the loudest exclamation of them all –

OH MY GOD, THESE SAUSAGES ARE BETTER THAN SEX!

That time had done it; Laugh Cannon had realized somewhere between that scream and the one before it that they were being directed at her, and after that one she had gotten up and left in a huff.

As soon as the door had closed behind her, the clapping began. Some of the football team even stood up.

Man, you alright, one of them had called out. You come sit with us if you want.

Funny as hell, man, someone else had yelled. Samar had stood up on his chair then, unsteadily, and had grinned at the clapping students with his half-baked Dormouse smile.

The Clown Prince, ladies and gentlemen!

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here 'til Tuesday, Jack had chuckled, bowing theatrically. The campus never forgot. And from then on, Jack was the funny man. The universal mood-lifter. The instant party. Everybody wanted him around.

That kind of celebrity didn't come easy, of course. Sober Jack wasn't nearly that funny. Sober Jack had way too many dead screams and memories in his head to maintain all that hilarity. And so by his sophomore year, Jack Napier had moved from being a simple alcoholic and a pothead to a guy who would do just about anything for the next high, anything to keep the train rolling.

Like the night he spent at Ray's cousin's house in New Carthage, when they ran out of booze way before Jack had had enough to shut up the tiny version of James in his head. He'd been desperate, so he had downed the only alcohol he could find – a whole bottle of cooking sherry from the kitchen, which had tasted terrible… but not terrible enough to stop him.

Or the time he had finally broken down and consented to getting high on the cold medicine Samar had stolen from the Walgreens just off campus. Samar's dad had finally cut him off and the money for weed had dried up, but he had told Jack that in the absence of anything good to smoke, triple C's were a decent alternative. The first time, Jack had been hesitant.

By the third or fourth time, the little red gel caps had looked to him like a scattering of rubies on the dorm floor.

And then came the end of sophomore year, when one of Ray's friends from out of town had brought a bag of mushrooms to the party. Jack had gotten his second warning from the dean that day, that if he didn't start showing up for classes, his scholarship would be toast, and the guys had decided that a rousing few hours of debauchery were just the medicine he needed to cheer up. Ray's friend had made sure Jack had been in a good mood before he gave him the shrooms – a bad day was bad enough, he said, but shrooms didn't make you feel better, they just made you feel…more. So if you were good, shrooms made it great. If you were already upset, shrooms would crush your dreams. Jack had nodded his vague acknowledgement of the advice and had gone for the mushrooms with no hesitation – as he was already hungry from the pot he'd had earlier, this was an easy decision.

He had found out that night that mushrooms were pretty great.

Actually, they were fanTAstic.

Mushrooms were the drug of all drugs, and Jack resolved never to take any other drug if there were shrooms on hand to have first. He'd had revelations about humanity that night, revelations about the universe… and he was pretty sure he'd heard otherworldly voices underneath the audio of a Tarantino movie.

Jack Napier did mushrooms every chance he got.

Like the next night, when they had gone driving through the suburbs of west Gotham, all shroomed out of their minds except Ryder, who had been driving and only mildly buzzed. They had stopped at a gas station somewhere near the Palisades to get snacks, and somehow everyone had scattered once they were inside. Jack had found himself wandering up and down the aisles alone, with no depth perception and no idea where the floor stopped and the shelves began. The tiles had looked like jiggling squares of vanilla pudding. When he'd looked up, he had been completely unsurprised to see a Crunch bar leaning out of the candy shelf, waving and smiling at him like an old friend. Some of the other candy bars had done the same, and Jack had felt quite pleased to be so warmly received. He had been wandering into the next aisle to see if the chips would greet him similarly when he had run smack into a trio of State Troopers standing around the coffee machine. He had started to quietly back away before they saw him, until he had noticed that the back of the fat one's head was talking to him. It was a normal head, of course, but the hat had developed a set of bright blue cartoon-like eyes, and the strap that wrapped around the base of the trooper's skull had opened up into a black crack like a mouth. And of course, as it was such a polite hat head person, he had naturally begun to converse with it. The trooper had turned around.

You alright there, kid?

Huh? Oh, uh… yes. Yes, sir, officer sir. Fan-fucking-tastic. He had started dissolving into laughter then, and the troopers had looked at each other knowingly.

Have you been drinking this evening, young man? Jack had hiccupped and swallowed the laughs that were still trying to get out.

Ah…yes. Oh, yeah. Yes, sir, I have. I've been a very…bad…boy.

Didn't drive yourself here, did you, young man?

Oh, no, Sir! I would never do such a horrible, irresponsible thing! He had slapped a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. My good friend is driving me home, sir.

Uh-huh…, the trooper had grunted, but at that moment Ryder had shown up and saved him. They'd gotten home without further incident, and the talking trooper hat had become a thing of legend.

The next time he did shrooms, he and Ryder had lain on their backs on the hill between Kane and McMahan, staring at the night sky. The moon had given them both a good long talk. Comparing notes later, they'd found the moon had said the exact same thing to both of them.

There followed a long string of legendary hallucinations and wild adventures, fueled by a swirling mixture of sex, alcohol, weed, cocaine, and mushrooms, that all began to blend together by the beginning of junior year and Jack's third and final warning. He had one semester to get his academic crap together before the dean took action. Jack had tossed that paper aside like the ones that had come before it, telling himself that it didn't bother him. And it didn't, in itself; he wasn't worried about losing his scholarship, or disappointing his professors, or getting chewed out by a board of fat old guys in glasses.

But he had been worried about failing. Really, truly failing. Because if he failed, he'd have to go home and explain to his mother what had happened to her little angel and how he'd managed to screw up so badly. If he failed, he'd have to go home and look James in the face.

If he failed, he'd have to go home and look at his own reflection sitting in the chair.

And that was something he couldn't do.

So, he had spent that whole day trying to decide what came next. He knew he'd have to get his head on straight, get himself feeling better before he could make any headway at getting himself back on track academically. So he'd gone through his usual list of pick-me-ups, trying to ward off the growing feeling of impending doom. But Christy, the theatre major who was almost always open for a good time, wouldn't come out of the theatre and talk to him – apparently, she had decided he was a little too much of a health hazard for her tastes – and he struck out with the two or three other regulars, too. Then he had run into Jodi, who was always up for anything, and she had been. But when he left her room just before dinner that evening, he hadn't felt like it had helped at all. He was still just as stuck on the fear, and the sense of failure was looming even closer than that morning. So instead of going to dinner, he had downed a bottle of Jim Beam and the leftover pizza that Ray had left behind. And it hadn't made any difference at all. Alcohol had lost its ability to do anything to him but make him feel sluggish, and that, on top of the anxiety, was a double whammy. By eight o'clock that evening, he had been through most of the stash of drugs he kept in his dorm, and instead of feeling better, he'd felt worse. Every mirror he had looked in had shown James's face glaring back at him. So when Ray and Ryder had stumbled in, carrying popcorn, a movie, and a bag of mushrooms, Jack had jumped like a man grabbing for a life preserver. Nothing else had worked. These had to.

In the back of his mind, of course, he could hear the faint echo of Ray's friend the year before, telling him that shrooms only took what you were feeling and made it bigger. That you shouldn't do shrooms to feel better, because they'd just take your anxiety and give it teeth. He ignored that echo.

He needed the high too much to listen to warnings.

That night was one of the worst nights of Jack Napier's life – not quite as bad as the nights he'd cried himself to sleep on his Ninja Turtles pillowcase, and not nearly as bad as the night he would bring his world crashing down years later, but bad enough that it was always a visible memory in the periphery of his brain. He'd seen his life stretch out in dimensional planes across his field of vision, only to crash inward in an implosion that sucked the light out of the air around it; the layers rolled up into the image of an empty popcorn bag, and he had watched it blow down the dorm hall like tumbleweed on an imaginary wind, into a hole that was dark grey, cold, and echoing with James's voice.

He'd also hallucinated a disturbing conversation with an image of his mother – dead, beaten to death with a bottle, shards of colored glass still embedded in her blood-caked hair as she had sat on his bed and calmly discussed how he'd killed her. Him. Not James, him. He had managed to hold himself together through most of it – right up until she had caressed his face with cold fingers. Then he had screamed like a banshee. Ryder and Ray had snapped him out of it and sobered him up, but he had nightmares the rest of the night, and a thumping headache the whole next day.

That was the day he'd decided he had to make a choice. He had spent all morning wandering around campus, walking everywhere instead of getting a ride, letting the mild early autumn wind smack his curls in and out of his face. He had even gone to one of his classes. Dr. Worthington had looked shocked to see him. Or maybe it was the circles under his eyes and the way he smelled. He hadn't cared. He'd just sat through the class and then resumed his walking. He'd probably covered nearly every inch of sidewalk on campus by three that afternoon, and – the biggest achievement – he'd done it all sober. Not a drop to drink or a single joint, and it was almost dinner time. It had been…. God, it had been months since he'd done that. But he had felt the emotional hangover from the night before weighing on his shoulders, worse than he'd ever felt in his life, and he didn't know if it was worth it. Decisions hurt these days. Nearly everything hurt, these days. But he had made one more decision that afternoon. He had decided that he would go to the student center and see if anybody he knew was there. If they were, he might get some cheese stix from the snack bar and eat something. Maybe go to dinner with them. Maybe get his shit together, for once in his life.

If not, he would go back to the room and light up a joint. It was all up to fate.

He'd walked in to find Ryder on one of the couches just inside the doorway, sitting with some people he vaguely recognized. One of them was a guy named Kyle. Jack had a fuzzy recollection that Kyle and his roommate Derek had lived just down the hall from him. He also vaguely remembered some kind of fight between them and Samar. As he had listened in on the conversation, it had come back to him. Samar had robbed those guys last week, trying to get stuff to sell or trade for drugs. Kyle had almost beaten him to a pulp. That was why he hadn't seen Samar in a few days. He had left GSU for good. Ryder had been telling the group about that as Jack wandered in, and when they motioned for him to join, he had flopped down into the remaining armchair. Somebody had offered him a donut, and he had accepted it disinterestedly. It had tasted like Styrofoam. God, he'd thought – if this was life sober, maybe he was better off lit anyway.

And that was when he had seen her for the first time.

Nape? Yoo-hoo…? Jack had snapped back to reality to see Ryder's hand waving in front of his eyes. A piece of the donut had been lying on his knee where it had landed when it fell out of his open mouth. Ryder was giving him the eyebrow. You having a seizure or something, man? Jack had managed to close his mouth and swallow the rest of the donut before answering.

That girl, who is she? The group had collectively turned to look. Across the entryway, heading toward the small quiet-study alcove with the long couch, was an attractive blonde with an overloaded laptop bag. Ryder had chuckled, Kyle had shaken his head; but Jack had just kept staring. How could he have done anything else? He'd never seen anything that affected him like that, high or sober. She was gorgeous. Everything. The way her hair fell around her face, curling just at her shoulders; the way her cargo pants sat on her hips, the curve of her breasts under the blue-and-magenta silk tank top – he could tell she was wearing a bra with that shirt when most girls wouldn't, but instead of finding it prudish, he'd found it endearing – and he couldn't see her eyes from that distance, but he'd bet they were green. Emerald green. He had dropped the donut on the table. No, I'm serious, man, who is she?

No idea, Nape, Ryder had said, shrugging. Across the circle, a girl in a gypsy skirt had spoken up.

I think she's in my lit class. Hey, Dayna, didn't you and Derek have a class with her too? The two in question had looked again, and Dayna had nodded.

Oh, yeah, that's Jeannie. We had biology with Newquist together last year. Right, Derek? Apparently, Derek had now put the pieces together, because he had nodded as well.

Oh, yeah, yeah. Right. She always sat across the aisle from us, next to James, right?

Yeah, I worked with her on that group presentation, remember?

I've gotta talk to her. Jack had said it out loud before he realized it, and it had drawn a laugh from Derek.

Not an icicle's chance in hell, dude.

Why not?

Um, she's a little… straight-laced… for you. Right, Derek?

Total prude, man. Like, I don't even think she has sex. No way she'd put up with you, or anybody in this circle, dude. Not with all the drugs floating around between us. She might smile at you, but the second she finds out you use, she won't give you the time of day. Forget it.

I've got to try.

Jack, a guy asked her out in class once, and she turned him down because he smoked. As in, cigarettes. She thinks drugs are the next worst thing to like… Satan worship.

I'll quit. He had said it quickly, without hesitation, and in that instant, he had meant it. Hell, he had already spent most of today sober. He could do that again tomorrow. And the next day. He could quit. For that girl, he could quit.

Around the circle, everyone had been looking at him like he was turning purple. He had waved at their expressions dismissively. I'm serious, guys. If it gets me a date with her, I'll quit. I mean it. What's her last name? And what's her major? What do I talk about to get her interested?

Whoa, slow down, Dayna had chuckled. Jeannie MacMillan, social work, and I have no idea. But you've got to meet her first, hot stuff. Worry about conversation if she actually stays to have one.

Okay. Social work. That means …she's got a soft spot for charity cases, right? Maybe if I play up the fact that I'm trying to quit… maybe her helper instincts will kick in….

God, Nape, take a deep breath, Ryder had laughed. You get too excited, you'll ruin your shorts. How 'bout it, Dayna? Call her over here, introduce them. At least then, if she slaps him in the face, he'll have it out of his system.

Well, I can introduce them, but we've gotta have an excuse to keep her over here. Misty, you've got Lit with her, right? Got anything from class you can ask her about?

The girl in the gypsy skirt had shrugged. I need somebody to go up against in the Shakespeare debate. I can ask her if she's picked which play she's doing, and see if she wants to pair up.

Okay. Hey, JEANNIE! Dayna had called. Jeannie had been nosing around for an empty spot in the alcove and having no luck; when she'd heard her name, she had turned and then approached the group awkwardly, not paying attention to Jack staring at her, open-mouthed.

Oh, hey Dayna, Derek… and… Misty, right? Misty had nodded.

Did you pick your play for Fischer's class yet?

Um… yeah, I think… I'm looking for somebody else who's doing 'Antony and Cleopatra.' What are you doing?

I'll do that one, if you need a partner. It doesn't really matter to me.

Oh, that's great! That means we can go ahead and start writing our arguments.

You want to sit with us? Looks like the corner's full. We can pull up a chair. Jeannie had looked a little hesitant for a minute – Misty was just a little bit of a hippie, but the rest of the group had the very definitive look of drug users. Jack could see the evaluation in her eyes. But after a few moments, she had agreed. Jack had nearly tripped over himself grabbing a chair from a nearby table; he had managed to slide it over into the gap between himself and Misty's end of the couch before Jeannie had even made it across the circle.

Here you go, he had breathed. He'd heard the anxiety in his voice and faked a cough, trying to cover it up. He had waited until Jeannie had put her bag down and taken the seat. When she'd looked up, Jack had been leaning forward in his chair, his whole body a mass of caged tension. He had stuck out his hand, hoping his palm wasn't sweaty. I, ah… I'm Jack. Jack Napier. And he'd given her his most charming smile – at least, what he could muster of it. Right about then he'd become conscious of a thousand things that would send her running. The circles under his eyes. The way his skin probably looked sickly now, or the fact that he hadn't washed his hair in a few days. The smell of pot that permeated all his clothes. Everything. He couldn't have been a better advertisement for addiction if he was a billboard. Who was he kidding?

Jeannie MacMillan, she'd answered, and put her hand in his. He had only just had time to register surprise that she had even answered him when a sensation like electricity washed from his hand over his whole body. It had grabbed his gut and twisted it into sudden and unaccustomed knots; it had made his scalp tingle; he had suddenly found it difficult to breathe. It had taken most of his mental strength to let go of her hand – the lingering traces of last night's high had told him that the world might crack into pieces if he let go – but he'd managed it, holding on only a second or so longer than a normal, polite handshake. Thankfully, she hadn't seemed put off by it, although he could tell by the look she gave him that she'd been aware of his nervousness. Then it had seemed to occur to her why he was nervous, and she had blushed.

When that color had come into her cheeks, it had been all Jack could do to shift positions in his chair before anyone noticed the swelling in his jeans.

And he had been right. Her eyes were green. Like emeralds.

There were a lot of times over the course of his life that Jack couldn't remember – days and moments that had become faded by time, or smeared into a haze by the drugs and the booze. But that moment became the axis around which the rest of his memory revolved. That moment, he could play back in crystal clear video. It was the moment he'd been given a chance to put James Napier behind him and be somebody else. The moment he could have chosen to be himself instead of his father. And he almost had.

As it turned out, Jeannie had reacted just like he'd posited – she'd seen the poor, defeated addict who wanted desperately to change, and her mother-bird instincts had kicked in, the same instincts that had driven her to major in social work. She wanted to help him – help him kick the habits, help him get his grades back up – and she did. Jack Napier quit every substance he had been using as of Monday, September 2, 2002. Quit cold turkey. And the withdrawal nearly killed him. But Jeannie nursed him through that, too. He'd kept himself sane by reminding himself that she was the reward. He ditched the drugs, he got Jeannie. Hell, for that, he'd quit eating, if she asked him to. Anything. Anything to get her.

And he did. Jack and Jeannie were a solid couple by the time his withdrawal symptoms started to subside, and by the end of junior year, they were talking about getting married. Jeannie helped him get into three different community service programs, helped him schedule his classes, helped him organize his thesis research – and by the time their last semester rolled around, Jack was back on the honor roll. Not as high as he could have been if he'd never had a drug problem, but high enough that he would get a medal and a scroll with Latin words on it at graduation. It was a complete turnaround. And he owed it all to that morning when he had decided to go to the student center instead of getting high. It was the moment that almost saved him.

Almost.

Jack's admission still hung in the air of the kitchen like a poisonous cloud as Jeannie finished stacking her Tupperware with a violent smack of a lid. Jack slid down the doorframe to the floor, feeling it happen more than consciously doing it. He seemed to be doing a lot of that, lately. He knew that he should probably be doing something other than just sitting on the floor watching his wife move out, but frankly, it was all he felt competent to do at the moment. Jeannie had packed the Tupperware and was now going for the pots and pans under the stove. He watched her numbly. There was no way she was going to be able to completely pack her half of the house. Not in the luggage she had, and not all in one night. She would need boxes. She would need help lifting it all. She would need him to (finish the mess he'd started) help her carry it to the car. He passed a shaky hand over his face.

"Jeannie, you can't move everything out tonight." He said it in the vague direction of his feet, but Jeannie whirled around as if he'd been looking straight at her.

"Like hell I can't," she retorted, and began jerking pans out of the cabinet as if she needed to prove that, indeed, she could. Jack winced. He hated hearing her curse. Actively hated it. Mostly because he knew that it was merely a symptom of the wound he'd caused her – he had put those words in her mouth himself, filled her up with that acid just as easily as he had put that child in her body. She had never said those words before he had started ruining her.

"Jeannie, you're going to hurt yourself," he tried again. "And it won't all fit in the car. Take all the light stuff, but come back for the rest tomorrow, oka—"

"WHY, so between now and then you can convince me not to leave?" she spat, flinging the cast iron skillet she was holding to the floor. It struck on the edge and left a slanted black scar on the tile. Jack halted it rolling as Jeannie finally stopped packing and turned the full force of her anger on him. "Listen, Jack, you've convinced me of a lot of crap over the past few years. You started when I was young and stupid enough to believe every story you ever told me. You convinced me that you were committed to quitting, when really you'd just had that one morning of being too upset to get high and decided, hey, maybe I'll just start getting clean now! You convinced me that you were going to be able to get another job when ACE closed down. You convinced me that you were still sober, that of course you were sober, you were going to be a father! You convinced me that Ryder had gotten sober, so his place was a good place to crash when you were out late!"

"Jeannie—"

"You convinced me that your eyes were red from staring at computers in the library looking for jobs. Ha, that one REALLY makes me sound like an IDIOT, doesn't it? You convinced me that nosebleed was from STRESS—"

"Jeannie—"

"But my FAVorite, no, my favorite was when you convinced me that you smelled like cigarettes and dollar store perfume because of the woman you got stuck in a seat with on the BUS!"

"Jeannie, listen, I—"

"Well, GUESS what?" she shouted, completely obliterating whatever he was trying to say. "There's no convincing your way out of this one! Not with Eric and at least five other people finally telling me the truth!"

"JEANNIE, CAN WE TALK ABOUT IT?" he screamed, getting up from the floor. He hated screaming at her. It made his throat feel like it was coated with broken glass. But she didn't miss a beat.

"Which part do you want to talk about, Jack? Hmm? Do you want to talk about the hundreds of dollars you probably owe people for cocaine? Or maybe the timeline of exactly when you jumped back into each of your fifty different addictions? You wanna… explain… exactly what you traded for every batch of mushrooms this past month? Tell me how many minutes of sex a dime bag of pot goes for? Or would you rather just describe for me how good Vicky is in bed?" By the time she got to the last word, there was a break in her voice that signaled the approach of more tears. Jack clamped his teeth down hard on the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes. He could feel pressure swelling behind his cheekbones and below his brows, and he slapped his hands over his face, rubbing to push the tears back where they belonged. He couldn't let himself cry in front of her. He didn't have the right. Not after what he'd done.

Finally, he managed to swallow the tears and uncover his face, dragging his fingers back through his hair and leaving them there. But although he had managed not to cry, he knew his eyes were still wet. He could feel it. Blinking to hide it, he tried taking a deep breath and almost choked.

"Jeannie, don't," he finally got out, his voice shaking. "Please. Don't."

"I thought you wanted to talk about it," she said flatly. Jack dropped his hands.

"NOT—" he began, and then stopped, trying to rein in the desperation in his voice. "Not like that, Jeannie. Shit. You know what I meant. Just… ah, hell." He sighed, searching for words. "Ten minutes. Just… let me talk for ten minutes. I know damn well I can't …explain …what I did. Okay? It's not something I can argue. I get it. I just want to tell you exactly what happened so you hear it from me and not just people who heard about it, and so you don't think I'm trying to lie my way out of it. That's all I want."

There was silence in the kitchen for a few horrifying moments. Finally, Jeannie kicked her bin of Tupperware to the side and approached him, stone-faced. Only her eyes moved, swimming in pools of hot tears that looked ready to overflow. She had to stand on tiptoe to get in his face, and the still-vague swell of her stomach pressed against him as if he were being accused by two instead of one.

"Go to hell," she said.

Then she went back to angrily smacking the lid onto the plastic Tupperware bin. Jack clenched his teeth, trying to hold in the scream that was welling up in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pretend he hadn't heard those words coming out of her mouth, out of that mouth that used to scold him for saying piss. When he opened them, he saw her looking at him coldly, as if she knew what he was thinking.

"I know," she sneered. "That doesn't quite cover it, does it? I would have said, 'Go fuck yourself,' of course, but there's no need for that. There's probably a whole line of women waiting to do that for you."

That one did it. Jack actually heard the first teardrop hit his shirt before he felt the heat on his cheek; everything after that came like a punctured dam. He didn't bother wiping his face dry. He just stood there, clinging to the handle of the refrigerator door and waiting for his shoulders to unlock and the flood to subside. He tried to think of something to say to that, but there didn't seem to be anything that could follow it. It was like they had reached a wall in their conversation, a clear glass wall that neither of them could see but that would never allow them to move beyond that exact point ever again. They might talk all night and never get over that wall. They could divorce, or stay married, it didn't matter, and years might pass, but they would always be standing at that same wall with that same unresolved conversation between them. If by some miracle she stayed, that sentence would be waiting like sludge at the bottom of every argument they ever had; and if she left like she intended, then that sentence would be part of her heartbeat and breath every time he saw her from then on. It would be there behind her eyes while their lawyers talked over folders on lacquered tables. It would radiate from her if he saw her on the street, even in passing. It would hang over both of their heads on the weekends he went to see his kid, poisoning their smiles as they pretended to be nice while the kid got out of the car, tainting every gift he bought the kid or every hug he gave.

And someday, when the kid was old enough, he would look up and see it in their eyes, too, and he'd have to die all over again.

Making himself stop crying was a lost cause, but he finally got in enough breath to get some words out through the tears.

"What exactly did Eric tell you?" The sentence sounded soggy, like words on a paper that had been rained on. But he figured that if he didn't actually lead her into talking about it, they never would. His eyes were still blurred, but he heard her snort.

"Why, so you can try to make yourself sound like the victim?"

He didn't want to look at her, but he forced himself to. "No," he said. "So I can make sure he didn't leave anything out." Jeannie raised her eyebrows at him as if to say that he was clearly lying, but she would allow him to continue speaking. He sighed. "If you're gonna hate me, I want it to be for what I actually did and not what Eric told you I did. So tell me what he told you." Jeannie said nothing for a moment. Then she crossed her arms and walked over to the nearest dining chair, sitting down like a queen about to pronounce judgment.

"He didn't tell me all of it. Believe it or not, I actually have more than one friend who wanted to make sure I was okay. But this morning I get on Facebook to ask Ryder if you were still planning on leaving his place before lunch, and I'm greeted by a rousing argument between Eric and Vicky that's apparently exploded all over the feeds of everyone in your college network. Apparently, Vicky had cheated on him at Ryder's party last night. Which was a shock to me, since I thought Ryder had stopped having parties since he got sober. Everyone was arguing about it, which I thought was none of their business, but was entertaining nevertheless. Then I read the one that stumped me. 'You're such a whore, Vicky,' Eric said… 'that you couldn't just cheat on me with some random guy, no, it had to be one of my friends. I can't believe you and Jack would do that to me'."

"Shit," Jack whispered, and hung his head. "Jeannie, you didn't deserve to find out that way, and I'm sorry."

"Oh, so you're saying there's a nice way to find out?"

"You would have found out from me. That's how you should have heard. If Eric didn't advertise his damn personal business all over the Internet—"

"Oh, I think you've abused Eric enough for a lifetime, so don't start running him down now," Jeannie spat. "You act like you were going to be little George Washington confessing about a cherry tree. Not…likely."

"Jeannie, I was GOING to TELL you. But unlike Eric, I don't handle my personal problems on a website. I was trying to find a ride home this morning while he was posting all that crap. I wanted to come home and sit down and just…admit what I did and beg you to take a day to process it before you decided if you wanted to hate me or not. I swear to God. I wanted you to hear it from me. Eric just ruined my chances of that."

"Oh, it's easy for you to say all this now, isn't it?" she sneered. "Now that I know about everything, it's easy to say, 'Oh, I was gonna tell you, sweetheart! Honest!' But if Eric hadn't said what he did, you expect me to believe you would have confessed anyway? HA!"

"JUST—" Jack started, then he sighed, knowing it was useless. "What else did he tell you?"

Jeannie chuckled, a hard, cold sound bouncing off the kitchen tiles. "That everyone in that apartment was high enough to hear colors when it happened. And that I was stupid to think it was the first time. I sent him a message personally, you know. After I read that conversation. And the humiliating thing is, I DEFENDED you. I told Eric that he must have gotten it wrong, that it couldn't have been you, that you wouldn't DO something like THAT. I mean, if they had just told me you had started using again, I wouldn't have been shocked. Upset, but not shocked. It happens. Addicts have relapses. I had even had my suspicions. But I always thought that out of all the mistakes you're prone to making, CHEATING on me would never be one of them. I defended you for a solid HOUR before Kyle finally called me. Between the two of them, they told me the whole story."

"Maybe," Jack corrected, but she ignored him.

"They told me you'd been drinking again for almost a year. Well, that one didn't surprise me – I'm not that stupid. I had suspected it, ever since you lost your job. But I thought that's all you were doing, and I figured you couldn't be doing it too heavily since you never came home drunk. Oh, BOY, was I wrong on that one. They told me you had given up on looking for jobs, unless you wanted to count a few months ago when you agreed to help some guys break into the old ACE facility in exchange for a share of the profit, except you were so wasted you couldn't be bothered to show up. They told me that was when you started smoking again. They told me you'd been using cocaine and mushrooms again for the past three months. That every time you said you were crashing in Ryder's guest room, what you were actually doing was getting high on drugs you couldn't even pay for and having sex with any girl at the party who'd agree to it—"

"That is NOT true, okay?" Jack barked. "That's an exaggeration!"

"An EXAGGERATION?" Jeannie screamed. Her fists were balled up at her sides, and her face was turning an unaccustomed shade of scarlet. "Oh my GOD, Jack, whether it was two women or two HUNDRED, it still hurts exactly the SAME!"

"DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?" he shrieked. His heart was pounding hard enough that he was shocked not to be able to see it through his shirt. "You think I was PROUD of myself? Hmm? That I was…making notches in a bedpost or something? JESUS, Jeannie, I couldn't look at myself in the MIRROR afterward! Every time I woke up with one of them it was like waking up in HELL. Okay?"

"Every time? Well, Hell must not have been hot enough to keep you from going back," Jeannie said, and this time her voice was quiet. Jack thought maybe that quiet was more painful than the screaming. He realized that he was crying again, although he wasn't sure when that had started. As he sniffed and tried to dry his face, Jeannie folded her arms again and fixed him with a hard look. "So tell me then," she said coolly, "if it was an …exaggeration… straighten it out. How many women are included in the pronoun them?"

Jack felt his lip quivering, as if it knew how disgusting his next few sentences were going to be and didn't want to speak them.

"You've gotta understand, Jeannie," he began, trying not to look as she rolled her eyes. "It didn't happen like they made it sound. Okay? I didn't just get high and then decide to have sex every chance I got. But that first time—"

"Which was when, exactly?"

"Shit." He paused, gathering his strength. "Two months ago. The first time, I was so high, I couldn't see straight. I know that's not really an excuse, but it's not like I went to Ryder's looking to cheat on you. But I was so high that I was hallucinating, and that was before the shrooms. Okay? I had never shot up before. And I don't even remember going to bed with her, I just remember waking up feeling like absolute hell and looking over and immediately feeling like the biggest piece of SHIT on the face of the planet. I wanted to tell you right then, but Ryder talked me out of it. He said as long as I straightened up and flew right from then on, and it never happened again, then telling you would do you more harm than good. And like an idiot, I listened to him. But I need you to know that there wasn't a speck of emotion involved in it. I love you. I didn't do it because I felt anything for that woman, I did it because I was so high I didn't know what I was doing." His eyeballs felt like hot marbles that were trying to swell inside his skull, and he shut his eyes as if to keep them in. He heard Jeannie shift in her chair.

"And what about the other times?" she interrogated. Jack cringed and kept going, thinking maybe it was like a blister and once he squeezed it all out, he might be okay.

"The other times I did it for drugs."

"So you were a whore who got paid in cocaine, is that it?"

"Damn it, Jeannie, you're a social worker," Jack said bitterly. "You know how this works. I'm an addict. Okay? I was clean for a while, but now I'm not, and you know damn well how far addicts will go to get their next high. They steal from their grandmothers, they volunteer for church programs and then rip them off, they visit people's houses and steal pills out of their medicine cabinets… hell, some of them pimp out their kids to pedophiles if it'll get them their fix. Because when you're deep in the middle of that craving, and you feel like your head's going to explode if you don't get just a tiny bit of relief, and you've got no cash, nothing, NOTHING seems like it's a bad idea if it gets you the drugs. So the fact that I managed a whole month without doing something stupid to get them is pretty damn impressive. I tried to bum as long as I could, but everybody finally cut me off, so I did the only thing I knew I was good at. I found chicks with drugs who were willing to settle for trade instead of cash. I guess I figured since I had already screwed up once…like you said. Not a lot of difference between two and two hundred."

He forced himself to look her in the eyes then, and what he saw felt like a hard kick to the balls. Jeannie was sitting completely still, her face a taut mask of pain that was slowly solidifying into hate. Her cheeks were wet, but her eyes had emptied; it looked as though she might have done the last of her crying.

"And you had the gall to come home and kiss me afterward." It was a statement and not a question, and he didn't argue.

"I'm sorry." His clothes felt suddenly too big for him; it was as if he could feel himself shrinking, like every confession took away a little more of his Self and handed it to her to be crushed and thrown away.

"And Vicky," she went on, not even acknowledging his apology. "What about her? Did Vicky have drugs to trade?"

"No." He felt deflated, and his words stopped having any power or feeling behind them. A breaker had tripped somewhere, and the juice was off. The answer was automatic. "That was because I was high again. Really high. Mount fucking Everest."

"I see."

"Like hell you do," he said weakly. His head was starting to swim. The toxic mixture of guilt, adrenaline, and the leftovers of last night's high were making him dizzy just as effectively as chemical fumes. Oh, she saw. Of course, she saw. There was a nagging, sarcastic, drawling voice somewhere in his head that was incredibly peeved at that. What did she know? Did she know what it was like to wake up with no recollection of the list of ways you screwed yourself over the night before? Did she know what it was like to be so messed up you couldn't see straight and do things you hated yourself for? Jack felt himself getting pissed and tried desperately to smother it. This wasn't his day to be angry. He was the one at fault. It wasn't his place. But he was getting angry in spite of that. He was too raw for her words not to burn. "Like hell you do," he repeated. "Yeah, you see. You see eeeevery bit of it, don't you? Fucking twenty-twenty vision. Well, TELL me, Mrs. I See EVerything – when was the last time you felt like you were going to DIE without something, but once you got it, it fucked you up so bad that you behaved like an animal, and didn't even KNOW until you woke up? Hmm? Sure, you SEE."

"Don't you DARE get angry with me, Jack Napier," Jeannie croaked, getting up out of the chair, her fingers spread and curved like claws at the ends of her hands. "You're lucky I'm even speaking to you, you bastard." She tried to spit that sentence with a righteous vehemence, but it lost its power by the end; her voice dropped as she put a hand to the small of her back, cringing. Jack had been prepared to return fire, but when he saw her plop back down into the chair, he immediately retreated. The hardness left his face like sun-dried clay being splashed with water. He knew her back had been giving her problems the past week or so, and he guessed that with getting up so quickly and so forcefully, coupled with all the stress, it was about to surrender. She was trying to keep glaring at him angrily, but there was too much pain on her face for it to be convincing. Jack's anger melted into a hot, liquid shame.

"Shit," he whispered, letting go of the refrigerator and coming toward her. "Shit, Jeannie, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry. Here, come on. Let's go to the couch. These chairs aren't great for your back, you need something sof—"

"Don't touch me," she hissed, recoiling from his hands. He pulled back, feeling helpless. And that's how they remained for ten minutes or more – Jeannie sitting awkwardly in the dining chair, trying to ease the pain in her back, and Jack slumped dejectedly over the table behind her, waiting and not knowing what he was waiting for. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Jeannie stood up slowly, testing her muscles. She gave her lower back one more rub, but let it go, satisfied that it had calmed down enough that she could walk. Then she turned to look at Jack.

He felt her eyes on him and looked up from the table; she was standing in profile, the as-yet-mild swell of her stomach suddenly looking so much more prominent, more real, more there, and the light coming from the entryway into the kitchen door behind her threw her face into soft shadows as she placed her hands over her belly protectively. Jack felt his arms shaking but kept leaning on the table anyway. It was his only support. Jeannie regarded him for a moment. Then she spoke.

"I should have listened to my mother."

"What?" he mumbled. Jeannie's face had hardened, and there were no more traces of tears.

"She told me," Jeannie said quietly. "She told me you were the Hindenburg. That you were going to burn from the inside out. And that if I got on board, I was going to burn with you. I should have listened." Their eyes met for a few seconds, and then Jeannie turned and left the kitchen, heading toward the pile of her things below the staircase. Jack watched her go, images of Mrs. MacMillan and that UPPER MIDDLE CLASS wedding and that stupid stained glass window floating around his head. God, he hated that woman.

And she was absolutely right.

In his mind, Jack began pounding imaginary fists against the wet, red edges of the wound that was slowly spreading to cover his whole brain. He wanted to make sure the salt was well rubbed in.

A couple of weeks before Jack and Jeannie got married, Jack had accepted a job at Allied Chemical Enterprises – known as ACE, to everyone except the pretentious CEO. Jeannie had gotten an entry level job with GCFS, although it was really less social work and more making phone calls to the parents of truant kids. And it didn't pay much. But it was her first year there, and her supervisor said that's where they stuck all the newbies until they proved themselves. She'd level up eventually. All that was okay, because Jack's job was paying enough for them to live comfortably even while her salary was a pittance.

Jack Napier began his career as a highly sought-after chemical engineer working close to the top of the ACE employee ladder. ACE was actually less of a single company and more of a manufacturing octopus, with its tentacles dipped in various business ventures of a chemical nature. Pharmaceuticals, biotech, petrochemicals, waste treatment – if it was high tech and involved chemicals, they had a stake in it. Jack had started out in the mechanical division, working as a consultant for manufacturers who planned to use dangerous chemicals in their machines. The CEO had decided early on that Jack was a prodigy and hired him to a much higher position than new graduates usually achieved; he was smart, she told everyone, almost too smart for his own health, and besides – he didn't seem to mind working under a female CEO, which was a rarity among the young bucks entering the workforce.

The fact that he was so attractive didn't hurt his qualifications, either.

And so, as the summer of 2004 turned into autumn, Jack and Jeannie had been flying high. They moved into the brownstone on 4th Avenue in the Fort Clinton neighborhood after only a few months in their West Hill apartment. It was only three blocks from St. Mary's Park, and if they looked hard enough out their north-facing bedroom window, they could see Wayne Tower in the distance. Jack had felt like a king. No more run-down box of a duplex, no more stained walls and pocked carpets; it might have been a tiny step down for Jeannie, but to Jack, it had been a castle. They were Lord and Lady of the Manor, and life was good. Jack had felt like everything his father had never managed to be – sober, healthy, well-paid, home for dinner every night, and completely happy with his little family of two. This was life on the other side, he had decided. A nice house with an upstairs (an upstairs!), nice furniture (most of it vintage) that didn't strictly match, but it went together, a GUEST room, for crying out loud… a job he was good at, and that made him feel like he wasn't a failure… wanting to go home at five, because he knew what was there was good… helping his wife make dinner, and ordering pizza when they screwed it up… going to bed with her every night….

He had never anticipated how disorientingly comfortable that would be, going to bed with the same woman every night. He found that it wasn't even the sex that made it so welcoming – and the sex was good; but afterward, in the dark, when the house was quiet and he could hear her breathing beside him, when he could close his eyes and still feel her wrapped around him, the sensation of that warmth inside her that drew him in, invited him to be a part of it, a part of her… when he knew exactly where he would be waking up and that she would still be there when he did…. It was a feeling of home that he had never experienced or understood until he was there. And on the nights when they stayed up late, laughing at ridiculous things and then scolding themselves because they had to work the next day…

…Jack had figured that must be what people always meant when they talked about happiness. Every day was like that thing in the Bible where God did something and then "saw that it was good." The moment was usually small, but there was always a point in the day when Jack would stop to look at his life, comprehend it, and then nod his head in agreement with it. They were creating a universe unto themselves. And Jack saw that it was good.

The next year, they were flying even higher.

By their first anniversary, Jack's salary at ACE had gone up – the company was booming, even amid the growing atmosphere of turbulence and instability that was Gotham City. Jeannie was still on the bottom rung at GCFS, but one of her coworkers was looking to retire, and she was a shoe-in to move up into her spot. That was the year that Jack's mother had finally gathered her strength and put James out of her house. She had come to visit them the night before she did it, looking around open-mouthed at her son's change of fortune; she had cried, Jeannie had cried, and Jack had hugged her tight and told her she was doing the right thing. It was about time. That was also the year that Jack had sat with Jeannie's father at their dining room table and finally felt like he was welcome. Jeannie had been gone that night for an evening with the ladies she worked with, and Mr. MacMillan had shown up unannounced – he wanted to sit and have drinks with his son-in-law, and a man-to-man talk. Jack had felt an unexpected surge of pride when he told Mr. MacMillan (was able to tell him!) that he didn't drink anymore. He had brought out two root beers instead and the two of them had sat at the table and talked investments and retirement plans and whether or not they planned to stay in the city or maybe someday move out to the suburbs. And Jack's father-in-law had patted his arm and (grudgingly) admitted that maybe he and his wife had been wrong about him. Not a lot of kids with his kind of problems ever made good, but he looked like he had shaped up, and he guessed that he and his wife should be grateful knowing that their daughter was well taken care of. Jack had replied easily that it was Jeannie who had taken care of him first.

That was the year when they first started talking about maybe having kids.

Of course, after the high, there's always the hangover.

In 2006, the economy was beginning to lose speed across the country. Of course, it was nothing compared to the drastic, grinding halt it would come to in the next couple of years, but looking back, everyone could point and say that the problems began then. Jack certainly could. In the midst of the prosperity, the first warning signs of economic cancer were beginning to bubble up. At first it was only a couple of foreclosed houses, one company going under here or there. And people, including Jack and Jeannie, had sighed in relief and said they were glad it wasn't them.

Then the bottom fell out from under Allied Chemical Enterprises, and the layoffs started.

Jack hadn't started out worried. He was pretty much essential to the inner workings of ACE, not like one of the plant workers or a number cruncher. But the company stock was falling, pay looked like it might have to be cut, and two of the five chemical plants ACE had its tentacles in shut down in February of that year. Things had seemed to stabilize for a little while after that, and Jack had thought that maybe things were going to get back to normal.

ACE had gone bankrupt a few months later.

That was when the nightmare had started. Or, perhaps, as Jack sometimes thought in the year that followed, perhaps that was when the dream had ended, and he had woken up. Jack had put in so much time in the weeks after ACE folded that looking for a job practically became a job. While everyone else was out enjoying the spring weather, commenting on how lovely the pear trees were in St. Mary's Park, Jack was moving like a ricocheting bullet from one employment agency to the next, waving his degree like a flag. But the jobs just weren't there. It wasn't just ACE downsizing. Everyone was downsizing. Gotham had been hit particularly hard by the economic downturn, and Jack knew the jobs he was hunting were as elusive as unicorns, even if he didn't want to admit it. He kept it up as long as he could – every day, from his house to the one employment agency who still humored him and eventually to the library, where he would put in hours of digging, scratching, clawing at any opportunity he could find. He came home hungry, exhausted, and – far more debilitating than either physical symptom – ashamed. Ashamed that he couldn't find anything. Ashamed he'd lost his job in the first place. And maybe, deep down, ashamed that he'd ever believed he could have life on the other side after all. Jeannie had tried to convince him that none of it was his fault – after all, what could he do about a nationwide economic slump or the misfortunes of a company? But Jack remembered enough of his father's teachings to know better. Of course it was his fault. It would always be his fault. That was one of the basic truths of the universe.

And so what happened that day in late May only served to confirm that theoretical truth in Jack's mind. It was hot, one of the first truly hot days of the year, and by the time Jack got halfway from the library to the brownstone, he had felt like he was melting. He was tired, he was sweating through his shirt, and he would have to walk another block in that state just to tell Jeannie that he'd had no luck again today. Screw this, he had muttered at the sidewalk, hands on his knees. He would stop somewhere with air conditioning until he felt like going home.

He was sitting at the bar at Doherty's looking at the foam on his Sam Adams before he even realized which building he'd gone into. At least, that's what he told himself in the months that followed. It was easier to tell himself that, of course, after the first three or four he put away, and as long as he kept finding himself in a different bar each time, the illusion of just stumbling into them was upheld. For the first month or so, he kept up both sides of the routine – job hunting in the morning, bar hopping in the evening. Then in July he ran into Ryder again – Ryder, who was in the jubilant throes of celebrating his new position as manager of a comedy club on Mann near the Narrows – and bar hopping turned into a table at the back of the club, with drinks on the house, courtesy of his old friend. Stress relief, he told himself. Medicinal. Besides, it wasn't like he was bringing it home with him. It wasn't like he wouldn't go back to full sobriety once he had another job and the stress subsided. In the dark of the comedy club, cradling his fourth whiskey sour and laughing, those lies came easily too.

And as summer marched steadily toward autumn, Jack's stress relief likewise marched backward into unadulterated alcoholism, and the man Jack had become marched along with it, backward, into the waiting arms of the man he had been. By the end of July, there was a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the loose panel at the back of Jack and Jeannie's closet – for emergencies.

By mid-August, Jack was borrowing money from Ryder to fill the holes in their bank account before Jeannie could wonder where it was all going so quickly.

By September, he was desperate enough to do something stupid.

Relax, man, we thought it all through. RePEatedly. It was the short guy who had kept saying that. Jack had thought maybe he said his name was Jamie. Everything had been a little fuzzy. The other guy, who was tall and lumpy, didn't seem too willing to give his name, and Jack hadn't asked. They were both a couple of small-time hoods, and they had approached Jack one evening as he had been staggering up from the table of empty glasses. Tall and Lumpy had steered him back into his seat, and Maybe-Jamie had ordered him another drink. They had a proposition for him, they had said. Business, if you wanted to call it that. There was a great market, they had explained, for certain machine components – precious metals that got used in chemical refining, that sort of thing – but it wasn't exactly a market sanctioned by the powers that be. As it was, the two of them just happened to know a place where many such components were just sitting around, unguarded.

Well, it sounds like you two have got yourselves all set, then, he had said thickly. What do you need me for?

Because the place… is ACE. Tall and Lumpy had looked rather pleased with himself for his bad rhyme.

Wasting your time, he had grumbled. I worked mostly in the headquarters, at a desk. Not on the machines.

Yeah, but you were the fuckin' expert, man! You know how they operated, you know the layout of the plant – shit, you could probably tell us what stuff is still dangerous to touch!

And, ah… what would I get out of this incredibly stupid adventure, hmm?

Cut of the profits, Tall and Lumpy had said, sliding another drink in his direction. Maybe-Jamie had nodded.

You help us get in and out safely, and with undamaged goods… and you get a fat wad of cash for your troubles.

What makes you think—

Shit, you don't think we know the look of a man who can't go home and face his woman? Hey. Come on. With what we get outta this, you've got a nice little cushion to get you through until this recession eases up and you get another gig – or maybe some money to get you and the lady out of Gotham, find somewhere that isn't such a jobless shithole. You copy?

Jack copied, all right. He copied just fine. He just wasn't so sure he wanted to. Sure, he'd been an addict, had used illegal drugs for years with few qualms of conscience, but he'd never been a thief. Hell, they had always looked down their noses at the guys who stole for drug money. And to be honest, he hadn't been quite so sure about these two hoods, either.

How do I know we get out of this without handcuffs?

ReLAX, Maybe-Jamie had said again. Jesus, man, we said we'd take care of you!

Already scoped the place, Tall and Lumpy had offered. No rent-a-cops, no cameras, not anymore. Just a bunch of locked doors and a machine floor with no electricity. Minimal lighting, see. So we need somebody who knows the best way in and can find their way around.

And that's you.

When? Jack had finally spat, after a protracted attempt at thought. They had settled on after midnight that Saturday, and Jack had gone home feeling guiltier than ever. But what the short guy had said had struck a chord. Away from Gotham, he had suggested. And that had suddenly sounded to Jack like the best idea he could possibly entertain. Somewhere else, somewhere that hadn't been hit so hard, maybe he could find another job. And the cash from this robbery would help pay the rent until then. And so by the time he'd gotten home (getting straight into the shower before Jeannie could smell the smoke and the liquor), he'd made up his mind to go through with it. On Saturday evening, he threw on his baggy Red Sox hoodie, slipped a couple of tools into the pocket, and headed out, ostensibly to meet Ryder's (nonexistent) cousin with a job offer. Out of sight of the brownstone, he'd pulled the hood up over his head, drawn it as far down over his blond curls as he could, and hailed a cab.

About a hundred yards later he had gotten out again, ignoring the driver's confused barking. Instead of turning right at the intersection, he'd turned left toward the Narrows. And around 12:30, while the two hoods were waiting outside the ACE plant for the expert who wasn't coming, Jack was sitting on Ryder's couch lighting up the first joint he'd had in years and cursing what Ryder called "principles" and what he called "cowardice." There he was, with an opportunity to make some real money and solve some of his problems, and what did he do? Bugged out, that's what. Flaked. But what else had he expected? James had always told him he wasn't man enough to get anything done – real men solved problems, they didn't weasel around them – and Jack had started to think maybe he was right.

The next month for Jack was a haze of getting drunk, getting high, and then having to get sober enough to go home and pass inspection. He was sure Jeannie didn't know, and he wanted to keep it that way. Especially since he fully intended to get clean again as soon as he had a job to go back to. Marijuana wasn't even that hard to quit, he had reminded himself. The booze, well… that would be harder, but he'd done it once and could do it again. And since that was all he was doing, quitting wouldn't be anywhere close to the hurdle it had been in college.

He started using cocaine again at Ryder's birthday party in mid-October.

The day Jeannie went to the store for Halloween candy, Jack used the time alone to sort through his own trick-or-treat bag full of mushrooms he'd hidden inside his thermos from college with the false bottom. She was gone most of the day, and so was he, in a manner of speaking. They were the best mushrooms he'd had since the night he'd talked to the state trooper's hat, and he'd spent two hours watching Bubba-Hotep and laughing until he cried. He almost mistimed it – he was still coming down when Jeannie came home with two drug store bags of suckers and her mother's orange bowl – but she suspected nothing, and he smugly congratulated himself as he pulled on an angry clown mask and carried the bowl of candy to the door. Thirty minutes later, he had begun to wonder why she had been in the bathroom for so long. Trouble with her costume buttons, maybe. He didn't give it much thought. He was too busy putting suckers in pumpkin-shaped buckets and contemplating whether Ryder would have any more interesting candy at his place. Grown-ups should get treats on Halloween too, he had been thinking.

Jeannie Napier had walked out of the bathroom of the brownstone at eight o'clock with her costume still unbuttoned and her left hand over her mouth.

Her right hand held the pregnancy test in front of her like a bomb.

The first week of November 2006 had felt like something that wasn't real. Jack walked around addled, like a man who had hit his head and was struggling to regain equilibrium. He was going to be a father. A father, for God's sake. As if that wasn't scary enough on its own. Hell, regular Joes had trouble dealing with news that big. Add to that the fact that they were currently living on a social worker's "salary" and his dwindling savings and it was downright terrifying.

Add in the drugs, and it became a living hell. Plus….

What the fuck do I know about being a father? he had said to Ryder one afternoon, staring at the barely-smoked joint in his hand. Look at the one I had.

Well, then at least you know what not to do, yeah? Ryder had said. Jack had scoffed. Yeah. He had a lot of right to talk about what not to do when Jeannie was home by herself and he was sitting here with a joint in his hand, cocaine in his jacket pocket, and a heroin dealer making his drink in the kitchen. What not to do? Oh, yes. He knew what not to do.

Ah, hell, he had said after a protracted silence, handing off his joint to Ryder's new girlfriend Julie. He knew what not to do – James was what not to do. He wouldn't be that. He couldn't. His kid deserved better. He waved off the drink he was offered as he got up, put on his coat, and walked out of the apartment. As far as he was concerned, his sobriety started again that night. It had to. There was no other option.

Jack got home around five o'clock – before Jeannie, even, which was a first – and managed to brush his teeth and wash the smoke from his hair before the first throb of the headache set in. God, he wanted a drink. Badly. His eyes had strayed to the corner of the closet, but after a good look in the mirror (coupled with a few curses directed at his own face), he had slammed the closet door shut and flopped down on the bed, a tiny victory won. The conscientious part of him said he should probably go get the damn bottle and throw it out, remove the temptation completely. But there were two problems with that. The first was a bizarre and contradictory fact of addiction, of which he was acutely aware but had no defense against: if it was there, he was less likely to drink it. It was that simple. People who had no vices (people like Jeannie, for instance) always seemed confused by it, but there it was. The thing they never understood was that the closer the thing was that made you ruin your life, the less you wanted it. The sheer fact of that bottle sitting in that closet somehow made his cravings less severe. It wasn't really about choice – it was about what would happen if the desire for it got the better of him when the nearest liquor store was twenty minutes away and Jeannie had the car. If he threw it out, the next craving would turn his whole mouth sour; it would build for hours and hours, without a moment of relief, until he broke. Not having it would make him desperate, and he'd be back at Ryder's with Jim Beam in his hands by midnight. No, no. Better to have it here. As long as it was here, in his house, he could tell himself he was in control. He wouldn't feel so desperate. And if he didn't feel desperate, he could take deep breaths, call himself names in the mirror, and the craving would become a little quieter.

The second reason was much more practical.

If he got it out of the closet, he might drink it on the way to the trash can.

In the end, he settled for lying on the bed, calling himself names and waiting for the Tylenol he'd swallowed dry to squash his headache. By the time Jeannie got home, he was sound asleep. She had watched him from the doorway for a minute – surprised to see him home, but even more surprised to see him asleep in the middle of the day again. It had been happening lately, something very out of character for a man who always seemed too energetic to sleep even at night, and there was a spark of suspicion somewhere in her mind that thought about checking his breath. But then again, he was under so much stress. The job, the baby… stress made people sleep at strange times. And she had chalked it up to that and let him sleep.

The first week clean was utter torture, but he had made it. There were a few more instances of sleeping at odd times, of not eating or eating too much, or eating strange things, all instances that made Jeannie worry – but then again, she herself was currently guilty of wanting pickles dipped in ice cream, so she supposed she had no room to talk. Maybe he was having sympathy cravings. And the stress. She always went back to the stress and figured he'd get better. And as the week went on, he did. He only went to Ryder's once, and that was to pick up the flannel shirt he'd left there days before.

While he was there, he bought a single dose of heroin on a whim. He had no intention of actually using it, of course, not once he got out of the apartment. He'd never really even liked heroin. Too much risk for not enough payout. But it was just like the whiskey in the closet. He didn't have to use it. Not as long as he had it. The very fact that he could carry it in his pocket would show his self-control. And so the little brown bag sat snugly in his wallet between two crumpled dollar bills, a constant reminder that felt like a lead weight in his back pocket – a reminder that he was in control. It stayed there while he went on his first real job hunt in months; it beat a silent rhythm in his pocket while he helped Jeannie through her morning sickness, holding her hair out of her eyes as they sat together in the bathroom floor; when Jeannie's parents came for a visit, it became a mocking little hobgoblin nestled between him and his chair, voicing all the snarky things he wished he could say under her mother's reproachful gaze.

But it positively began to whine at the sight of the check Jeannie's father had quietly slipped under a vase on their way out the door. That had been one thing too far. It had started an argument almost immediately (We don't need their fucking charity, Jeannie, okay?) and he had stormed out with his hoodie only half-on, not really knowing where he was headed.

Well, that had been a lie.

He had been headed to Ryder's. Where else would he go?

The first couple of hours he had been firmly planted in the broken recliner by Ryder's living room window, not accepting the drugs they all offered him but working steadily on the bottle of whiskey he had claimed for himself. Everyone had given him a wide berth; he was one of those people who could get dangerously drunk without any outward sign, and anyone who tried to engage him in conversation was met with an unsettling stare. All Ryder told them was that he'd had a fight with his wife, and that maybe they should all give him some space. And so the only interaction he had with anyone before midnight was when Olly noticed he had finished the bottle and offered him another.

He was a third of the way into the second bottle when he realized it was absolutely pointless. Nothing out of a bottle was going to do him any good. If he wanted any relief he would need something stronger.

The little voice in his pocket piped up then, and this time, it spoke as if through a grin.

When he finally got up from the recliner, it was with a slow and unaccustomed purpose. Ryder had looked at him sleepily from under Julie. Where are you go—

To get high, he had said flatly, his hand slipping into his pocket. He hadn't gone to the coffee table, though, where Olly was laying out a line of his own. Instead, he had shuffled over to the kitchen and tapped the heroin dealer on the arm. A few whispers later, and he'd had a kit to go with the bag in his wallet. Ryder had tugged himself out from under Julie then and tried to follow him.

You're not—

Alone, he had insisted, stopping in the opening of the corridor. Ryder had looked questioningly at the equipment in Jack's hands, but after a moment he had backed down, and Jack had gone on marching down the hallway toward the bathroom. The dealer had leaned out of the kitchen and called after him.

Hey man, you ever used heroin before? It was something between curiosity and concern.

Yeah, Jack had spat, not turning around.

Well… you ever shot up before?

No.

If they had asked him anything else, he hadn't heard them; he made sure to slam the bathroom door in a way that demanded being left in peace.

Once he had locked the door, he let out the breath he'd been holding. His hands were shaking, and he was glad to be out from under everyone's eyes. He was thankful for Ryder's insistence that he be given space, but he knew deep down that he wasn't locked in this bathroom because he was emotional and in need of solitude. He was there because he was ashamed. Two weeks of sobriety were apparently all he was good for, and then it was back to ruining everything. That was apparently the only real talent he had – ruining things. Lighting rooms on fire while he was still inside them and watching them burn. Too bad he couldn't do that for a living. He'd be rich. No, no, no, it was humiliating enough that the people in this apartment knew how weak he was now. He definitely didn't want anyone watching while he did something he'd always called other people idiots for. Because up until then, that's exactly how he'd felt. Sure, he'd used heroin a few times before, back in college – back before Jeannie. But he'd always limited himself to snorting it, and even then only tiny doses, widely spaced. He had no intention of becoming like those idiots who shot up. He'd watched them get eaten by it, like a cancer. Put that stuff directly into his bloodstream? No way, man. Not him. They had always told him that IV heroin was a completely different planet than just doing lines, but he'd never been convinced that the difference was good enough to be worth the risk. He'd seen them do it enough times, though. Enough to have the image of their contented faces burned into his brain. Like they'd just turned the world off and walked out.

Well. Turning the world off sounded like one hell of a good idea right about then. He pulled out his lighter and got down to business. He found the process was almost relaxing – hell, it was just chemistry, right? And that, he was good at. By the time he had filled the syringe, his hands had stopped shaking. He half-heartedly began to roll up his shirt sleeve, but was struck by a thought halfway up: what if Jeannie saw the needle mark? Not likely, if it was only this one, but…. It was almost enough to unnerve him, to send him back out into the living room with the syringe still lying there full. She couldn't see this. Any of it. Not on top of everything else. He had already proved he was a lousy husband – he was here instead of there apologizing, wasn't he? – and he didn't want to drop this into her lap too. He was a few seconds away from abandoning ship when he remembered that guy Wash in their freshman dorm, the one whose arms were so plowed up he couldn't find a vein most of the time. He had started using the veins in his feet. Jack jerked his sleeve back down and began peeling off his socks. This, he could hide. Besides, Jeannie hated feet. She'd never get close enough to them to notice. He started to sit down on the toilet, and then thought better of it; from there, he could still see himself in the mirror, and that was the one thing he didn't want to do. He found his way to the floor instead and, propped up against Ryder's bathtub, he emptied the needle into his right foot. For about thirty seconds, he didn't feel anything.

Then, he felt everything.

And then he felt nothing. A great big nothing. The Greatest and Biggest of all the Nothings there ever was. An enormous warm blanket had been draped over him, except it was a blanket that moved around him, like water. His sense of gravity shifted, and he was no longer certain that his back and legs were touching anything. Maybe they were, but there was a warm, slippery stream of water that seemed to be oozing between them and the floor. He felt himself laugh before he heard it – the sound was a bit delayed. It was like when he was six and still small enough to slip down under the water in the bathtub; there had been nothing but warm stillness all around him, and the sensation of the bubbles slowly drifting a centimeter above his nose, and nothing had ever replicated that feeling – until now. This… this was the Great Bathtub of the universe, and he, and this bathroom, and this whole apartment were just floating in it, under the surface. This was like feeling the sun dry you off after a long afternoon in a pool, only better. This was like the first moment of calm after really good sex, only better. It was everything, only better. Now he got why they never seemed to be able to compare it to anything. Whatever the simile, it was like that, only better. Not even sex was a good comparison. Sex was a buildup, a climax, and then a comedown. But this didn't go up. Not even remotely. This was like sinking, with only the knowledge that you would keep going deeper and not even the remotest hint that there was a bottom. He became conscious that his arms and legs felt heavy, like they were asleep, or simply not his arms and legs at all, but just something someone had attached to him while he wasn't looking. There was a slow heat like an oven all over his body. Except he was the oven. He felt like he needed to take his shirt off. It was too hot. And clothes just weighed you down. Every movement was a giant effort, like dragging dead weight, but he finally managed to extricate himself from the sweater and drop it in the tub behind him. The temperature didn't change much. He still felt like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. Things were moving in the corners of his eyes, things that slowed down and then sped back up like bad film. He suddenly wanted out of the bathroom, wanted to lie down on something soft. Somewhere with warm yellow light. He started to move toward the door, but something was wrong. For a moment he didn't know what. Then he realized that he hadn't been breathing, and he made a mental note to concentrate on that. Breathing was important, after all. That struck him as funny, and he started laughing. It echoed off the tile in the bathroom and came back to him mockingly, but that was okay. Good, even. It was nice that his laughter was trying to hurt him, because it couldn't now, and it was nice to know that it couldn't. It was wonderfully relaxing to be completely unhurt by anything. He suddenly realized that everything was good. Even bad things were good. His back hurt as he got up, and that was good. Popping it felt like an orgasm. Everything had lost its negative connotation. Hell, had anything ever had a negative connotation to begin with? He wasn't sure. But all of his problems were gone. No, that was wrong. Not gone. Dismantled. If he squinted, he could see them in little pieces all around the room like children's toys. And there was nothing wrong with any of them.

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own – lack of gravity tended to do that, he thought – but he eventually made it back down the short hallway and into the living room. By the time he got there, he wasn't even sure how long he'd been high. He certainly couldn't remember a time before he'd been high. Had he been born this way? It felt like forever. He was only half aware of Ryder on the couch beside him, talking about something that was both important and hopelessly unimportant at the same time. He was even less aware of Olly doing something at the corner of his field of vision. Other people came to the couch, left the couch. Somebody put an arm around him. He ate something. He drank something. He smoked something. Somebody tripped over his feet. All of those things just floated around him, jumbled but mildly pleasant, in the warm, viscous liquid that was existence.

Sitting on the couch that night was the last thing Jack remembered with any clarity. In the weeks that followed, he tried. All he could call up were pieces, scraps that floated out of that warm ocean like driftwood that washed up somewhere he could actually touch it.

He remembered puking sometime after the couch. It must have gone on for a while, but he could only remember it feeling good, the most enjoyable sensation of puking he had ever had.

He could remember still moments better than moving ones – a moment of standing on Ryder's balcony, shirtless but not feeling the cold, a moment leaning over the table staring at the mole on some girl's collarbone, a moment standing against the doorjamb of one of the bedrooms, listening to somebody say something and agreeing with them. But everything between was just a blur of motion, nausea, and warmth.

There had been shrooms on whatever he had eaten, and the hallucinations he remembered: for a good half hour, he had been convinced that there were puddles of water throughout the apartment, and had tried vainly to splash in them.

But try though he did in the weeks to come, he couldn't remember anything that had happened in between. And, of course, it was those things in between that would carry the heaviest and deadliest weight.

Jack woke up itching. For a few seconds, the itching was loud and assertive enough that he had no comprehension of anything else, just a vague urge to claw his own skin off. As that urge marginally subsided, he woke up enough to realize that he was in Ryder's spare bedroom, and that the light coming in through the curtains looked like morning. Shit, he'd whispered. Or at least, he had tried to whisper. After a moment, he became aware that nothing had come out of his mouth, and that he'd spoken internally. He tried to reach up and scratch his chest, but his arm only twitched reluctantly. He felt like he weighed three hundred pounds. And the light coming in was morning, which meant he had been at Ryder's all night. Jeannie would be out of her mind. Jack fought through the heaviness and managed to lift his arm enough to push weakly at the sheets. The mattress seemed to wobble under him like a see-saw, and memories of the previous night's nausea came flooding back to him, along with an instant headache and a sudden, overwhelming wave of horror. He had shot up. Fucking shot up. Like a junkie in an alley. He felt an impulse to jerk the sheets over his head and smother himself. How could he have been so utterly stupid? And the worst part was, Jeannie would be worried sick, because he'd yelled at her (like a bastard) and then hadn't come home. He began to hope frantically that Ryder had had a moment of sobriety and called her, given her some excuse. He didn't want her to think he was dead. Of course, after last night, he was lucky he wasn't.

Still itching, screaming curses at himself inside his head, Jack managed to shove the sheets the rest of the way off. He was surprised to see that he was naked. He vaguely remembered shucking the sweater in the bathroom, but he couldn't recall taking anything else off. The most Ryder would have done before putting him to bed would have been to make him empty his pockets onto the night table. He rubbed a hand over his face; he must have undressed himself in the middle of the night. Probably got too hot. That was one of the only things he did remember – the overwhelming heat. He put all his energy into sitting up. He had to find his clothes. Somewhere in the apartment, he could hear Olly laughing. Apparently he had spent the night too. Jack found it irritating. Anybody who could laugh that much this early in the morning, after snorting what he'd snorted the night before… it just wasn't natural. Somewhere else in the apartment, Jack thought he heard a microwave beeping. He contemplated the idea of breakfast. That, of course, was a bad decision, and he had to steel his stomach muscles against the vomit that threatened to erupt. Gravity still felt a little off, and his head wobbled as he finally reached vertical and put a hand out to steady himself against the mattress.

He jerked the hand back up immediately as nausea threatened to overwhelm him; but this was a black, cold nausea that was nothing like the leftovers of the heroin. He held his hand up off the bed, not touching anything, as if maybe by not touching anything, he could make himself forget what he had touched just a second before. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared at his own knee under the sheets, not willing to look anywhere else. If he looked, it would be real. But of course, he couldn't lie to his own senses. Not when he was sober. And right now, he was about as sober as he had ever been in his entire life. So he looked.

The pile of sheets beside him was not, in fact, a pile of sheets. It was a woman.

In the course of Jack Napier's life, there would be only one other moment that would surpass the pain of that late November morning. In the time it took Jack to look at the woman beside him and then back to his own lap, he discovered what it felt like to die. He discovered that one could, in fact, feel numbness and excruciating pain in the same moment. And he discovered that he could cry like a child and not remember when he started crying. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours, but Jack didn't perceive the passage of time; he simply looked up after a black, empty space of moments and found that his face, hands, and chest were slimy with tears, and that he was cold. So very cold. The warmth of the previous night had receded so far into the distance that he thought he might never be warm again.

He had no memory of finding his clothes, or of getting dressed. He simply looked up from the blackness again to find himself standing in the doorway of the bedroom with no idea how long he'd been there. Ryder was waving a hand in front of his face.

What? he'd managed to mumble.

I said, good thing you're up, man. We were starting to get anxious. And hey, don't worry, I called Jeannie last night before I was completely hammered. Told her you were feeling like a jerk for yelling at her, and that you were going to stay here and eat pizza with me and Olly and I'd put you up in the spare room. Which, I'm glad you found it on your own, because by the time I went to look for you, I guess you were already in there, and I was none too lucid myself. Jack only barely understood most of Ryder's words. He was too wounded to hear anything beyond the low whine that was starting up somewhere in his brain. Ryder was about to say something else when there was a stirring in the doorway behind Jack. He flinched out of the way like a feral animal. The woman slipped out into the hallway, still pulling her shirt over her head. As she passed by, she gave Jack a playful grin and a pinch on the arm.

They oughta sell tickets for that ride, hon. Let's do that again some time.

She was out the front door before Ryder turned back to Jack in disbelief, needing confirmation that what had just happened was real. He wished he hadn't looked. Jack's face in that moment would stay in his memory as the most hopeless and painful thing he would ever see until the day he died.

But Jack, why did you even—

I TOLD you, I don't fucking REMEMBER!

Not even her name? Jesus, Jack.

YEAH. THANKS. That REALLY sums it up, doesn't it?

The conversation had gone around in that same circle all morning, always coming back to the same fact – that Jack didn't remember anything that happened after he got up from the couch the night before, and that he had slept with some woman whose name nobody at the party even knew. Jack had taken two scalding hot showers and had to be dragged out by force. But he had still felt filthy. Like he had rolled in a grease that would never come off. Ryder had finally kicked everyone out of the apartment, even Olly and Jules, and he and Jack had sat down for the most serious conversation they had ever shared.

Drive me home. I have to tell Jeannie.

The HELL, Jack? Why, so she can start packing before lunch? Holy crap, man. Are you still high?

Drive. Me. HOME.

Hell, no. Not until you get that death-wish out of your head.

Ryder, listen. That woman… is the only person in my life who's ever been able to glue pieces of me back together. Okay? And I've been lying to her for months now, and that's made me feel like enough of a bastard without this. So you'll excuse me if I'd like to tell her the TRUTH for once.

You're an idiot. You know that? An idiot.

Yeah, I figured that out this morning when I woke up in BED with a woman who wasn't JEANNIE. Now take me home, dammit.

And so it went. Jack had been wholly insistent that his only course of action was to tell Jeannie the truth. That he had been so high, he didn't even remember seeing that woman at the party, much less sleeping with her. Ryder, of course, had been wholly insistent that Jack was an idiot. What would telling her accomplish? he had asked. Jack had pointed out numbly that if she had helped him get clean once, she could do it again. He'd been stupid to think he could do it without her. And Ryder had pointed out that the last time she'd cleaned him up, he hadn't been lying to her or cheating on her. Jack had started crying.

Besides, man, Ryder had concluded, pulling Jack's coat off the back of the couch. Think about the baby. You wanna send her into premature labor over this? Hell, no, you don't. Listen. You tell her, and all it'll do is hurt her. She'll be miserable, and it might even ruin your marriage. But it's not happening again, right? Jack had vehemently shaken his head through tears, and Ryder had nodded. Damn right. So as long as you straighten up, and it never happens again, then Jeannie never needs to know. It's one mistake. A mistake you don't even remember. Don't start trouble by telling her you're sorry for something you wouldn't even know you'd done if the girl had woken up first. Savvy?

And that had been that. Jack had listened to Ryder, as he had so many times before. Ryder had given him a ride home, and he'd managed to stop crying by the time they got out of the Narrows. He had given Jeannie a stiff hug when she met them at the door, and he had muttered a few dozen apologies into her ear. She had been touched by how upset he was over yelling at her. He had hoped to God those whispered apologies would lighten the weight in his chest.

He had taken two more showers before the day was over.

Of course, all the showers in the world couldn't wash off the feeling that began to settle over Jack as November rolled along. It was as though there was always a third person in the room, a nameless woman visible only to Jack, who seemed to be looking at him over Jeannie's shoulder. He couldn't touch her without remembering the moment he'd put his hand down in the bed and touched that other woman's arm. He couldn't make love to her without a seeping, poisonous guilt reminding him that his body had been in someone else's hands, and that Jeannie didn't know. And he couldn't kiss her without wondering if he'd kissed that other woman, too, or if they'd been too high for foreplay. It was that one that had bothered him the most, actually. Sex had never been particularly sacred to him, especially before Jeannie. It had just been a way to have a good time. But kissing was different. Kissing was intimate. It was personal. It was a conversation without words. He had never had the luxury of telling Jeannie that she was the only woman he'd ever slept with; that ship had sailed long before he met her. But he had always been able to tell her that he'd never kissed any woman the way he kissed her.

Now every kiss felt like another lie.

He had tried to make up for the awkwardness of those first few days by doubling his efforts to be romantic. He had touched her more often, just to remind himself that she was solid and real. He had made love to her almost frantically, as if his passion could rewind his mistakes. He also began to take showers more often, hoping that eventually the water would erode away the sensation of cold and rot that had taken up residence below his belt. They hadn't worked.

By the time Jack and Jeannie drove to Northside for turkey with Mags, Jack was getting high every day. It was the only thing that made the invisible woman disappear.

Eventually, though, even that train had begun to lose steam. Getting high meant getting drugs, and getting drugs meant money. And money was something Jack had very little of. In the early days, they had all sympathized with him, and everyone had been willing to share the high. So when Jack had started running low on funds, he had found several willing hands extended, especially Ryder. But sharing can only go on so long before it becomes bumming, and by mid-December, Jack had reached that cutoff. At first, it was people making excuses about not having any on them. Then it was people suddenly finding themselves somewhere else when Jack showed up at the apartment. By Christmas even Ryder had said enough was enough. Maybe that was a sign it was time to get clean, he had said. If you can't afford drugs, then get off them. Ryder had said it like it was a simple flick of a switch. Jack had slammed the door in his face.

He had returned the next day ready to bargain. Of course, as soon as he'd gotten in the door, several people had scurried out. Nobody who had stayed had been interested – nobody except a somewhat horse-faced girl who had sidled up to him with a smirk.

Poor baby. Everybody cut you off?

If you're not gonna help me, then get lost.

Mmm. I MIGHT have enough to share. On one condition.

What?

You give me a little something in return. Enhance the experience, so to speak.

I'm married, Jack had spat, and started for the door. The girl had blocked him.

YEAH, and Kari said you were a good time in spite of that. So how 'bout it?

Fuck off.

Hey, you wanna get high, or not? Right now it looks like I'm your only option. You could storm out and go home to your wife, of course, but I doubt you'll be able to get it on with her if you're in the middle of withdrawals. So what's it gonna be?

Jack got home that night by dinner time. He spent the whole meal not looking Jeannie in the eye. It was easier that way.

By the time the Christmas lights came down, Jack's last shreds of dignity had disappeared along with them. It turned out there were plenty of women in Ryder's circle who were willing to settle for trade instead of cash, especially after the first few started talking. Jack was the star of the New Year's Eve party; while Jeannie watched the ball drop alone in their dark living room, crying into one of Jack's flannel shirts and admitting to herself for the first time that he had maybe returned to old habits, Jack had rung in the new year in Ryder's spare room, staring out the window into the cold streets that led to the Narrows and avoiding the eyes of the woman he'd left in the bed. None of it felt real to him anymore. He was numb. Going to Ryder's was like going to a job that he hated, and God, did he hate it. It was a struggle to make himself go. Then again, without the drugs it was a struggle to get out of bed. But the faces all ran together now, and he didn't feel anything. He had begun to repeat things to himself almost like a mantra, every time he went to Ryder's for drugs, preparing himself for what was to come. He told himself over and over that since he'd already screwed up that first time, that none of this really mattered. Infidelity was infidelity, whether it was once or a hundred times. And he tried to tell himself that the real infidelity would be if he loved another woman, went to bed with her for pleasure, told her secrets. Kissed her the way he kissed Jeannie. And this was as far from that as it could possibly be. This was disgusting. This was torture.

Of course, telling himself all that hadn't made it any easier to kiss Jeannie when he came home. He had found himself starting to become numb to that, too.

And then the first week of January came to an end.

And the world fell apart.

In the living room, Jeannie was putting on her sneakers, fumbling to loosen the laces around her swollen feet. Jack couldn't see her from the dining room, but he knew the sounds by heart. The way the antique ottoman creaked in just a certain way when she sat on the edge of it, the tap of the rubber soles against the floor, the little puffing sounds she made in irritation at bending over (sounds she had made even before the pregnancy), the faint click of the hard lace-tips as they flopped around her hands. Usually those sounds brought good things along with them – walks in the park, a Saturday at the museum, hours roaming the mall pretending to still be teenagers. Now Jack was calculating his odds of ever hearing them again.

Maybe it was better if he didn't. Better for her, anyway. Better for the baby.

But where would that leave him?

Jack suddenly decided that where it left him didn't matter. After all, he was the one who had put himself in this position in the first place. Wasn't he? Oh, yes. Yeah, he really was. Maybe it was where he belonged, he thought, finally looking up from the dining room table. Maybe the whole marriage, every day since that meeting in the student center, maybe it had all just been a farce that he'd been so carried away with putting on, he'd forgotten he was acting. Maybe there was no clean Jack, no Respectable Jack… only a plastic Norman Rockwell mask that he put on to hide the rot and the filth that were his natural composition. And when the chips were down, the mask had to come off.

"But I was happier with it on," he whispered weakly to the empty kitchen.

A happy LIAR, a voice whispered back, and it was unsettlingly familiar. It carried with it the scent of whiskey, cigarettes, and shame.

"No," he muttered, turning his back on the table and trying to settle his nerves. "No, this isn't over. I'm not going to be you." And he marched back to the living room with a new determination.

Jeannie now had a plastic tote in her hands and was toeing the front door open, her face reddening from exertion. Jack moved to open the door for her, but she saw him coming and kicked it hard toward him at the last second. It slammed into his shins, and he stifled the curse that had been pushing to the front of his mouth. He made to grab the tote from her instead. She jerked it out of the way, but he was quicker and had longer arms. His hands closed over hers on the handles, and he stood firm in her path.

"Jeannie, please. I'm not asking you to unpack everything. I'm just asking you to give me tonight. Yell at me, throw things, slap me, I don't give a damn what you do, but take tonight to think about what you're doing before you just walk out. Please. Don't I deserve one night at least?"

Jeannie gave him nothing but a cold glare. "Oh, that's a good line. Is that what you said to all your girlfriends?" She watched that blow hit home, and then yanked at the tote again. Jack was holding back tears, but he managed to keep hold of the tote.

"Jeannie, I love you. Please listen to me."

"I don't want to listen, Jack," she spat. "I've done that for long enough. Why don't you go tell Vicky? The two of you are rather intimate now. Or so I hear."

That one was enough; Jack's hands slipped limply off the tote, and Jeannie pushed past him and stormed down the steps to the car.

Jack turned back to the bag of baby things at the foot of the stairs, whimpered, and let himself slide down to the floor.

The morning after the New Year's Eve party, Ryder's mother had told him she would be moving back to her childhood home in Ohio, and her dutiful son had obliged her by planning an extravagant sendoff. Jack had decided firmly that he hadn't wanted to attend.

No, he had told him. Not this one.

Oh, come on, man. You gotta come.

WHY, so you can pimp me out some more? No thank you. Tell all your dealers they'll just have to screw somebody else. I'll be HOME. With Jeannie.

Who's pimping you? If I was your pimp, I'd be getting something out of it.

I can't be there, Ryder. It's bad for me. Physically, mentally, my marriage… I just can't. If I don't put my foot down some time, I'm going to go too far one day, and that'll be it.

What do you me—

You know what I mean, Ryder. You know damn well what'll happen if I keep this up. I'm going to get so high one day that I …I don't know …end up dead in my own puke. Or I go home to Jeannie still high and that's how she finds out. Or worse, she doesn't find out, and I accidentally hurt her or the baby because I'm too messed up to know what I'm doing. Or I knock up one of these dealers I'm fucking. Or I… Jesus, Ryder, what if I catch something from one of them and give it to Jeannie?

You and Jeannie are still gettin' busy? Isn't she a little pregnant for that?

Well, not yet. She's only two months or so. I mean, it'll get awkward eventually, but— that's not the point. The point is, I'm not going.

Jack, man… you've been like family since graduation. Mom would be totally bummed if you weren't there. Listen. Tell Jeannie we're having dinner with my mom before she goes back to Ohio – which isn't a lie, is it? Just come for the evening. Sit on the couch. Talk to my mom. Things start getting too crazy for you, you can give her a hug and go home.

Yeah? And what happens when everybody's lighting up around me, and I cave and start getting high? You're gonna …what …smack it out of my hands?

Hey, I'll keep an eye on you! The only drugs you get will be a share of mine. Promise. Heck, you probably won't even be there long enough to get high. Maybe one hit. Trust me. If I see you looking around for anything harder, anything you'll have to get horizontal to pay for, I'll shut you down. Scout's honor. I'll even keep you from leaving the couch, if that's what it takes. Come on, man. What do you say?

Jack had said what he had apparently always been destined to say.

He would never listen to Ryder again. Not that it would do him much good.

The party rolled around on the first weekend of January, and there had been a few, brief hours as it began in which Jack had thought that maybe it would be okay. There were people showing up he hadn't seen since his senior year of high school – not DJ, of course, he had been deployed since the previous fall, but Nash had dropped by. And most of the crew from GSU were there – Ryder's friends who had benefited first-hand from Mrs. Wolfe's loose wallet and looser interpretation of drinking age. Derek, Dayna, Kyle, Eric, Misty; Jack hadn't seen some of them since graduation, and he had felt an unexpected mixture of pleasant nostalgia and guilt. This hadn't been the way he'd wanted to present himself – Jack Napier, right back in the same spot they'd left him in college, drunk, addicted, and no better off for Jeannie's intervention. But he had put on a smile and tried to enjoy dinner. That part had been nice. Mrs. Wolfe's on-and-off boyfriend had brought enough pasta to feed a football team, and they had sat around the table drinking wine and catching up. Derek and Dayna had broken up, but amicably enough that they could still come to the party together as friends. Kyle was engaged and looking at grad schools. Eric had brought his new fiancée, Vicky, and Misty had brought her new husband Aaron. Jack had tried to tell them about Jeannie's pregnancy with all the pride and excitement a new father should display, and hoped they didn't think too hard about the dark circles that had been reappearing under his eyes in the last few weeks.

He had also sipped the wine with a grimace, the faint bitterness only making him desperate for something stronger.

By the time eight o'clock rolled around, he had it. The match with which he was going to burn his universe was lit.

There were many opportunities that night for Jack to extinguish that match, opportunities which he had either failed to see or had flatly ignored. The first had been passed to him along with the joint Ryder had handed over. He had taken the joint and let the opportunity go by. The second had come when Misty and Aaron had gotten their coats and headed for the door around 11:30, offering a ride home to anyone too loaded to drive. Jack, who had by then been too loaded to even walk, had turned them down; he had intended to let the shot in his hand be his last, sober up, and go home himself a few hours later.

Then Olly had brought out the cocaine. Ryder had gone to put his mother to bed before she started her favorite drunk activity, stripping. And so his insistences that he would keep Jack out of trouble came to nothing; by the time his mother was passed out in his bed and he had stumbled back into the living room, he found Jack two lines in and ready to do stand-up comedy on the coffee table. Of course, he himself was high enough that the promise he'd made was the last thing on his mind. By midnight, the bag of mushrooms was going around, and Jack was having the time of his life. It was the last good time he would ever have.

Jack. Wake up. Oh, shit, man. Wake up. Shit. SHIT.

Jack hadn't even been able to open his eyes for a few moments. Even after he did, he had needed to blink a few times before he realized that the voice was Ryder's and that there was an unaccustomed note of panic in it. Ryder was shaking his shoulder, and there had been panic in that too. Hearing Ryder sound like that, all the ease stripped from his voice, had pushed the sleep out of Jack's brain. Somebody's dead, he had thought. That was the only thing he could think of that could make Ryder sound like that. The party must have gone on well after he'd fallen asleep, and somebody had overdosed during the night. Jack had pushed his hair out of his eyes and groaned.

What? What's wrong?

Oh, man, Eric's gonna kill us both. Shit.

Eric? Jack had thought foggily. Then a cold fear had crept into his stomach. Eric's fiancée… what was her name… Vicky? Had something happened to her? Jack remembered her looking like she wasn't a heavy user. God, if she had taken more than she could handle…. The apartment had been eerily quiet, and Jack had begun forcing his legs out of bed, feeling like dead weight. Then, of course, he had remembered that he wasn't even in a bed, just tangled in a sleeping bag and pile of blankets between the bed and the window. Ryder had been hunched over him, and Jack had gotten his first really good look at his friend's face then. It had looked worse than he was expecting. But there had been no panicked glances toward bedroom door, no look of confusion. Instead, Ryder had been looking down at Jack like he was the one dying.

What, Ryder? he had spat. The light coming in between the blinds had been grey, and Jack had realized that the sun wasn't even up yet. What time is it?

Time for you to get the hell out of here, man. Come on. And he had started tugging at the blankets, looking for Jack's shirt among the tangles.

What? Jack had repeated. Ryder had been whispering for some reason, and Jack dropped his voice to match without knowing why. Jeannie won't even be up yet, you idiot. D'you mind telling me what's going on? His arm had been hurting, and he had realized he was itching. Fuck. He must have shot up again. And didn't remember a second of it. Ryder had thrown his shirt at his face.

No way, man. You gotta get out of here. Before Eric wakes up.

What the hell does Eric— he had started to say. And then he had remembered. Not everything, of course. Most of the previous night was a hot brown haze. But interspersed throughout the heroin fog were little patches of memory like windows. And in at least one of those windows was the image of a woman up against a wall with his tongue in her mouth. This time, instead of nausea and shame, there had been only black rage. What did I do?

Ryder had said nothing, only glancing at the bedroom door to make sure there were no listeners. That had pissed Jack off for some reason, and he had lunged up from the floor and grabbed Ryder by the shirt.

What… the FUCK… did I DO?

I'm sorry, man, was all Ryder had managed to get out. But Jack had followed his eyes. Behind him, curled up in the corner below the windowsill, was Vicky. Most of her had still been wrapped up in blankets. But the part that wasn't had been naked. Jack had closed his eyes and let go of Ryder's shirt. I promise, man, Ryder had been trying, I thought you were just passed out somewhere last night. Honest. If I'd seen you with her, I would've stopped you.

Inside Jack's head, a scream had started up somewhere behind his brain; it was a scream that would go on uninterrupted for years, that he would hear underneath his thoughts any time he was quiet or still, that would be the soundtrack to his dreams.

Outwardly, his face had hardened into a mask; and when he had finally looked back up at Ryder, there was a cold blackness that had taken up residence behind the brown in his eyes. And for just a moment, Ryder had been truly afraid.

Vicky?

Both of them had jerked at the sound of Eric's voice in the living room, and Jack had shoved his t-shirt on over his head while Ryder began fishing around for his sweater. In the corner, Vicky had stirred upon hearing her name. Her jeans had landed on her head a second later as Ryder found them under the bed. She had dragged them off her face, confused.

What the hell, Ryder?

Don't 'what the hell' me, Vic. You're both screwed, and so am I, because Eric is gonna say it's my fault for not babysitting you.

What? she had repeated. Then she had looked over at Jack in the neighboring pile of blankets and it had dawned on her. Oh, GOD….

Tell me about it, Jack had growled, shoving his socks on. They could hear Eric in the hallway. Ryder had loped frantically around the bed to head him off while Vicky tried to find her bra. Jack had started frantically searching for his left shoe.

Vicky had still been latching her bra when Eric came into the room.

Hey, Eric! You guys want me to make you some breakfast before you go? It had been a valiant effort on Ryder's part. But Eric had already seen enough. He had stopped short on the other side of the bed, staring wildly.

What the HELL, Vicky?

Eric, don't. Let's talk about this in the car, okay? She had managed to find her shirt, and Eric was staring at her bare torso as she flung it on, a dazed look on his face.

Talk about WHAT, Vicky? What were you— He had been casting about the room as if looking for evidence that he was dreaming; his eyes had fallen on Jack then, still trying to get his sweater on, and the full weight of what he was seeing had hit Eric like an anvil. Jack?

Eric, listen—

Jack, you slept with my fiancée?

Eric, I don't even remem—

You son of a BITCH!

Everyone in the room had still been coming down off the previous night's high, and Eric's lunge across the room hadn't been all that quick; but neither had Ryder's attempt to stop him, and neither had Jack's attempt to dodge. Jack had still felt like he was walking in sand, and Eric's fist had connected with his cheek before he could fully tumble out of the way. He'd only had one good punch in him, though, and Ryder had been able to wrestle him back to the other side of the bed. Jack had just stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, testing his teeth with his tongue to make sure they were all still solid. There had been enough heroin left floating around in his system to keep him from feeling the full impact, but he knew the punch had been hard. He had tasted blood in the corner of his mouth.

Eric, man, listen, Ryder had started. Why don't you just— But Eric had jerked away from Ryder's hands, snatching up the jacket he'd dropped and giving everyone present a stare hot enough to melt concrete.

Fuck you. All of you. Just… go to hell. And he had stomped toward the door. Vicky had managed to button her shirt, and she had grabbed her shoes and started to run after him.

Eric, wait for m—

Like hell, he had spat. They had heard him slam the apartment door and speed off in his Camaro a minute later, with Vicky still on the balcony yelling to match his screeching tires.

Jack and Ryder had stood in stunned silence for a few moments, Jack warily fingering his busted lip and Ryder staring straight ahead like he had a concussion. Finally, they had looked at each other.

Aw, man, Jack… this is bad…. This is…. He hadn't had the right words. But Jack had.

This is hell. Welcome to the Inferno.

Ryder had met Jack's eyes, then, and this time the fear lasted long after he'd looked away.

I have to go home.

No kidding. If you take any more showers, my landlord'll be up here wanting to know where all the water's going.

Shut the hell up, Ryder. I'm sick of your …your stupid nonchaLANce. You know? Just… God, just shut up. And drive me home.

I can't, man – Jules has the car, driving Olly and Vicky home.

Then FIND ME A RIDE, dammit.

Relax, dude. When Jules gets ba—

Don't you DARE tell me to relax. Exactly how many lives are you responsible for ruining today, hmm? Because right now, my count is up to FIVE.

Hey, man, you don't have to ruin anything if Jeannie doesn't find out. You don't have to tell her—

FUCK… YOU! Okay? FUCK YOU and your adVICE, and your HELP… GOD, just… shut UP! It's your damn fault I'm here!

Whoa, Jack, come on….

YOUR… FUCKING… FAULT! God! I wanted to go home and confess to Jeannie the FIRST time I screwed up, and YOU talked me OUT OF IT. I could have gotten clean MONTHS ago if I'd just confessed and asked for her help. But noooooooo. 'No, Jack. Don't tell her! Telling her will just hurt her!' FUCK! Well I guess I've REALLY hurt her now, hmm?

Well… God, man, I'm sorry. I give lousy advice, I guess. But what are we gonna do about Eric?

WE?

Jack….

YOU… are gonna drive me HOME. And I'M …gonna do what I should have done months ago. And pray that I still have a wife this time tomorrow. Come get me when Jules brings the car back.

Where are you going now?

To take another shower.

Jeannie? You home?

Ryder had offered to wait in the car until they were sure Jeannie wasn't going to start launching frying pans, but Jack had told him to get lost. He'd had just about enough of Ryder's help to last a lifetime. But when he'd gotten inside and closed the door of the brownstone behind him, the living room and kitchen had appeared to be deserted. He'd wondered if maybe she'd gone out with a friend or something, until he'd heard movement upstairs. Is she working on the nursery without me? he thought distractedly, and his mind went suddenly to the danger of the paint fumes and worrying about her climbing the step ladder. Then he'd remembered he had a lot more to be worried about than that and took a deep breath.

Je—

The suitcase had landed in front of him so quickly that he'd barely had time to register what it was. It had been followed by a gym bag. Jack had looked warily up the stairs to the landing where the things had come from and his knees had almost buckled; Jeannie was leaning over the railing, her eyes red and puffy and her lip quivering with righteous anger. Jack's heart had dropped. She knew already.

Jeannie, I… oh, God….

Yeah. News travels fast, doesn't it? she had sneered, and without another word, she had turned and gone back into their bedroom. Jack could hear the sound of drawers being jerked open, something dropping from the closet shelf, the tinkling of a glass bottle. It had been that last sound that had moved him from shame to desperation, and he had marched himself up the stairs then, a man marching to an execution he knew he deserved.

An hour and a half later, Jack had been on his knees on the bedroom carpet, his hands wet with tears he didn't even remember letting out. The match had been dropped. And the world was on fire.

All the bags and totes and boxes had been squeezed into the back of the car except two – Jeannie's old backpack and the mesh laundry bag full of baby things. Jack stared at them as if the strength of his gaze could keep them there – could keep Jeannie there – another day. Upstairs, he could hear her rummaging around, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything important. Because she has no intention of coming back for anything, the voice whispered. Jack ignored it, his eyes not leaving the baby bag. Everything was yellow and white because they hadn't found out the gender yet. Yellow and white and the occasional mint green, and ducks because they were sort of neutral, right? Dogs were sort of boyish and kittens were somehow feminine, but ducks were sort of an all-purpose animal, feathery enough to be girly but still comical enough for little boys. Jack started crying again. Ah, hell, he thought. He was an addict and a drunk and a whore, and his wife was leaving him, and she was taking his baby away before he even knew if he had a son or a daughter, and here he was thinking about whether ducks were a gender-neutral animal. "Good job, Jack," he spat quietly, sounding more like his father than he'd anticipated and hating himself for it. There were hiccups in his crying now, all his muscles and nerves finally beginning to twitch from the strain. And suddenly he found himself laughing. It was a bitter, strangled laugh that floated up through his tears like garbage floating in a pond, but there it was. Ducks, he thought. He wished he hadn't even started thinking about the stupid ducks in the first place. "Fuck ducks," he choked around the tears and chuckles. Then he realized he had rhymed, and that made the laughter worse. It started bubbling up so fast that he could barely breathe, catching on the raw parts of his throat and making him sputter. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He just sat there in the living room floor, crying and laughing and wheezing and wondering if that was what insanity felt like – having all your emotions at the same time until your circuits just fried from the overload.

"Well, I'm glad to see you can find some humor in this."

Jack swallowed the laughing and the crying so suddenly that he began to cough. Jeannie was coming back down the stairs with a couple of books under one arm and a wadded-up blanket in the other. He recognized it; that was the old striped throw that had been on her bed all through college. The one she had bundled him in while he was detoxing. He'd spent several hazy, torturous days curled up in the corner of his dorm, with her tucking that blanket around his shoulders and smoothing his hair. The sight of that blanket was the final straw. All the laughter was gone, and he buried his face in his hands and cried like a lost child.

"What do I have to do?" he muttered weakly. Jeannie raised her eyebrow, like she was considering his question.

"You can carry the baby bag outside, if you want."

Jack's head rolled to the side from a phantom slap. "Ah, hell, Jeannie, you know what I meant. What do I have to do? Whatever you want." He dragged himself across the floor to kneel at her feet. It was a bit cliché, but frankly, he wasn't certain his legs would support him if he tried to stand. "Please, Jeannie. Just tell me what I can do to start fixing this. Whatever it is, I'll do it. You want me to go to rehab, I'll go. We can separate for a while, however long you need. I'll go stay with my mom or something. Jeannie, please. Let me try to fix this somehow. Hell, I will walk up and down the street with a sandwich board announcing that I'm a cheating bastard, if you want me to. Please. Tell me what I have to do. I don't want to lose you."

He looked up and met her eyes then, suddenly aware of what a mess he was, how not even the showers at Ryder's that morning could cover up the damage he'd been doing to himself. He was reminded of that day in the student center – God, it seemed like an eternity ago – when his clothes had reeked of pot, his hair had been unwashed, and the bruises under his eyes had been a billboard for addiction. When he'd had the audacity to hope that Jeannie would look past it and give him a chance. Lifting his eyes up to her now, with the same shadows under them and his clothes smelling this time of another woman's body, he understood abruptly that he wouldn't be given the same opportunity again. Jeannie leaned down to him, and the tips of her hair brushed his forehead teasingly.

"You lost me two months ago. I just didn't know it yet."

The scream that had been surging like an undertow beneath his swirling, panicked thoughts since that morning swelled then, and finally broke into his throat in a cold wave. He tried to catch it and felt shards of it rip through his vocal cords anyway; what came out was the sound of an animal being kicked by a hard boot.

She was right.

Damn, but she was right. Hadn't he really known that all along? Known, since that first confused awakening at Ryder's, that first scalding shower, that first decision to keep his mouth shut, that he had already lost her? Sure. Sure he had. He'd known it with the same black certainty he'd felt in that long-ago moment when he knew that his father was really gone, standing in wet carpet and broken glass. That dark, secret part of him that held onto those painful truths until they festered, it had known all along. Hell, maybe that's why he hadn't been able to get clean again, no matter how hard he'd tried. Because deep down, that little black bubble in his brain had known it was a lost cause from the start. Had known, and had kept that knowledge hidden from the parts of him that moved and breathed – because where was the fun in quitting while you were ahead? Oh, no. Nooo, …no, no. Much more fun in letting yourself writhe in the agony, flailing, as you tried to crawl out of one hole right into another.

Jack felt himself start to be sick.

For Jeannie, his silence was apparently a white flag; seeing no answer trying to tumble out of his mouth, she straightened back up and tossed the backpack over her shoulder. The books she tucked into the blanket, freeing her other hand to drag the sack of baby things. She didn't seem to need his help after all. She and the bag had made it halfway to the door before that realization pummeled Jack back into coherent thought.

"Jeannie, stop," he choked, trying to get up. His feet caught in the folds of his own jeans and sent him flopping back onto the floor. His chin bounced off the rug, making the cut start bleeding again. He tried to curse, but the only sound that made it out was an unsettling growl. Eyes narrowing, he shoved himself roughly upright. "I said fucking STOP," he barked. And for a second, she did.

Wiping blood from his chin with his sweater sleeve, Jack tucked his hair behind his ears in an attempt at dignity and made the distance to Jeannie and the door in two strides. He moved to grab the bag from her, but she jerked away before his hand could close on it. Her back was ramrod straight and unwavering. There was a deep breath and an even deeper silence between them before Jack could speak.

"Listen, I… I'll come to your mom's tomorrow and we'll talk this out. I—"

"No, you won't. You'll stay here, or I'll call the cops and say you were trespassing."

"Oh, yes, ma'am." He heard the sarcasm leaking out before he could stop it. "Fucking giving me orders, now…."

"Oh!" Jeannie snapped, feigning shock. "You don't like orders? How about the one you just gave me? For your information, I'll stop if and when I want. And currently, I think I've stopped long enough. Excuse me." She reached around him for the door handle. Not fully aware of his own movements, Jack grabbed at her arm and closed his fist around it. He heard her hiss in pain, realized he was digging his fingers in too hard, but his arm and his brain seemed to be operating on different wavelengths. "Let me go," she spat.

"Like hell I will."

"Jack, I'm leaving."

"No…, no, no, you're—"

"Yes, I AM." And she yanked her arm until his fingers lost purchase on her thick sweater. "If I forgot anything important, I'll send my dad over for it. Don't call."

"Jeannie, pl—"

"And don't say please anymore, either. We passed that stop a while back."

"Jeannie—" He stepped toward her at the same time she stepped toward the doorknob, and they both pulled up abruptly, unwilling to touch. Frustrated, Jack sighed. "Jeannie… what the hell am I supposed to do, hmm?" There was the barest edge of a cry in his voice, and he hated himself for it. Jeannie, of course, was unmoved.

"I don't know," she said nonchalantly. "Maybe you should look your dad up and ask him. You two seem to have more in common than either of us admitted." Her eyes were clear and unblinking, and the unemotional frankness stung worse than a sneer would have. Jack's arms fell to his sides. The circuit had finally blown, and his face became a wax replica. Seeing her opposition crumble, Jeannie plunged ahead through the breach. "Give up, Jack. You can pretend you hate the man all you want – and hey, maybe you do – but you've got to give up pretending that you aren't just like him. Because you are. Pretty much a carbon copy." She turned the doorknob, then let it go again as another thought struck her. "Oh, no, wait. Sorry. Not an exact copy. At least he never managed to cheat on your mother. That we know of, anyway. And he lost a leg before he became an addict. What's your excuse?" On that, she let her face relax into something like a smile, even as Jack's crumpled. But under the smile he could see that she was still studying him, looking for weaknesses the way a lioness would seek out the slowest antelope in the pack. He decided to stand still and let her say what she wanted. It was easier, and after all, wasn't it exactly what he deserved? Besides, it wasn't like she could say much that he hadn't already said to himself.

Almost as if she could see him make that decision, Jeannie nodded. "There we go. Now maybe I can get out of here in peace." She reached for the door. As she did, she let her other hand slide down from the blanket she was carrying to rest on her stomach. Jack realized as he watched her that she was actually smaller than he had thought. The swell of the child under her baggy sweater was still gentle – tangible, visible if you knew her well, but not nearly the accusing presence he had been perceiving all night. Maybe he'd been imagining the child joining in the accusations, swelling up with righteous anger. But somehow this smallness was worse. It just reminded him how much more helpless this tiny person would be, coming into the world without a father.

Jeannie seemed to think of the baby then, too; her hand stopped on its way to the knob and went to join its fellow on the other side of her belly. She appeared to be looking for something, or waiting for something. But whatever it was, it didn't happen, and when the moment passed, she looked up at him with a strange, cold look in her eyes. It was a look that made his skin crawl, although he didn't know why.

"What?" he whispered. He didn't recognize the expression, but it couldn't be anything good. Jeannie was still for a moment, then she shrugged softly.

"Just… a thought. Something I just figured out. Or – maybe realized is a better word."

"R… about what?"

"About what I said just now. About your dad. And… people's choices. His, yours, mine." She looked up at him meaningfully but he stayed frozen, no idea where she was going with it or how to respond. In the silence, she repeated the shrug. "For instance, I know that you didn't choose to have the genes you have. You know? You're like him, but that wasn't all your choice. You didn't ask for an alcoholic gene. Or a lay-down-and-give-up gene. Those were theirs. Your mother and your father chose to have a kid knowing what could happen, what they could pass down. They had a choice and they made it, like you've been making yours. But see… that's one way you're going to be different, Jack. Because I just made a choice, too. And you're not going to be like your father, because you're not going to pass that down. Not with me, anyway. I'm not going to bring a kid into the world who's going to suffer just because of who their father is. Because of what they're made of. Because of who I decided to sleep with… who I thought I loved. So congratulations, Jack. You're not going to turn out completely like your father. I'm going to make sure of that."

Jack stared, completely uncomprehending. Her words hadn't made sense – academically, he recognized each of them as a unit of speech, but their collective meaning he couldn't seem to follow. He searched her face for anything to latch onto, some kind of look that might help him understand, but there was nothing – just that cold, expressionless nothing that he still couldn't place. But it wasn't just the look. It was her. Jack felt suddenly as though he were looking into the eyes of a stranger, someone he had never met and who spoke a completely different language. And like a tourist without a dictionary, he had to ask her meaning again.

"I… Jeannie, what—"

"You know exactly what I meant, Jack. I'm going to have an abortion. As soon as I can get an appointment. I'm not raising another you."

THWACK!

The sound of the slap echoed around the whole first floor of the brownstone, or seemed to. Jack blinked in surprise, trying to see where the sound had come from and realizing with a wave of nausea that his own hand was tingling. Jeannie hadn't moved; in fact, her expression hadn't even changed – only the slow, creeping redness on her cheek indicated that anything had happened. Jack couldn't breathe. There was an icy ringing swelling up in his ears that threatened to deafen him. He hadn't even thought of hitting her. Not in a million years. He wasn't that guy. Jack Napier was a lot of things, but he did NOT hit his wife.

Except he had.

His mouth moved silently, and he stumbled backward as if it was him who had taken the slap. Jeannie was still staring at him, her green eyes cold and completely still. As he looked at her, the edges of his vision blurred like old film. He had an absurd thought, a flash of a movie scene in his head – of Scarlett O'Hara standing on the stairs, imperiously telling Rhett Butler that no woman would want the child of a cad like him. What was it that Rhett had said in return? Cheer up, maybe you'll have an accident.

That's you, Jack. You ARE the accident. Jack choked on his own breath and coughed around it.

"Jeannie, I… I'm –"

You're what? Sorry? That was his own head, of course; Jeannie still hadn't made a sound. The shape of his hand was standing out bright now against her skin, but without it she might have been a statue. How long they both stood there in silence was anyone's guess. Jack couldn't even hear the clock ticking – was it the ringing in his ears, or had she packed the clock, too? He didn't know, but he had to force himself to start breathing again.

Finally, she moved. Her eyes remained fixed, but she released the strings of the baby bag softly, letting it slump to the floor. Her hand lifted, closed around the doorknob, turned. The sounds of traffic and wind and city echoes leaked into the silent living room, and still she kept staring, not even the faintest twitch of her face to suggest a reply.

"Jeannie, please…," he tried, but it was like her face was ceramic. And she was starting to turn. "Jeannie?" Dammit, Jeannie, say something! He wanted to scream it, but nothing came out except her name. She was just turning, her body moving to the open door even as her eyes remained still. Why didn't she say something? Why didn't she call him a name, yell at him for hitting her, anything? Jack needed her to speak, needed it desperately – even a goodbye, Jack like in the movies. But nothing was all she would give him. Their eyes blinked in tandem as her body moved into the doorway; and then she finished turning and the connection was broken. The wind picked up her hair and the fuzz on her sweater as she stepped out onto the stoop and then onto the sidewalk, arms full but walking erect. And now it was Jack who was immobile, watching her through the half-open door; listening to the click and the thud of the car doors; the cold air began to draw and pull at the skin around the cut on his face as he heard the thunk of the driver's seat being adjusted, watched the headlights splash on. He thought maybe she might look over at him one more time before she drove away - that happened in movies, right? That long last look, the dramatic, silent accusation? - but she didn't; she looked the other way, toward the street, to check the traffic, but not toward him. The Cruiser was already rolling forward before Jack understood that she had looked at him for the last time back in the doorway, and that it would never happen again. The lights moved slowly over a patch of sidewalk, the neighbors' steps, a white cat that ran away startled. Then they washed over the center of the street and the car was gone.

She was gone.

(What the hell was that?)

Jack closed his eyes and steeled himself against the echoing voice, terrified of it but not the least bit surprised. After all, it was the sound he associated with failure. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear the tinkling of broken glass.

(What happened?)

(YOUR SON happened, Margaret.)

Jack gripped the doorframe tight enough to hurt.

"Don't you dare bring Mom into this, you bastard," he whispered into the cool air. Bad enough he had to hear James' voice in his head. Last thing he needed was to have his mother's voice associated with that horror, too. James didn't answer, but Jack thought he could hear him chuckling faintly, if he listened hard enough. Which, of course, he was trying desperately not to do.

When he finally opened his eyes, the street was swimming dizzily in front of him. His eyelids felt heavy, his whole face slack - as if the strings holding it in place had snapped. Across the street a couple from the neighborhood were walking their dog, a little yippy thing that immediately began convulsing with tiny-dog rage at the sight of him. Jack no more heard the dog than he heard the wind, or the couple murmuring about his appearance - staring like he'd been poleaxed, bleeding from the chin, mouth slack and eyes vacant. They kept whispering as they dragged their dog out of sight down the street, and Jack never even registered that they had been there. He simply continued to stare at the spot where Jeannie's car had been, staring without really seeing, until his hand finally slipped off the doorframe and he staggered back into the yellow light of the house.

How long he stood there in the entryway looking at nothing, he had no way of measuring. It felt like days and seconds at the same time. But it ended abruptly when his vision began to grey out, and he realized with a cough that he hadn't been breathing.

"Breathing," he sputtered. "That's important. Gotta remember to breathe."

Yeah. It's just like doing heroin.

"Ah, hell," Jack whined, emotion spilling back into his face all at once. He tried to turn and run upstairs

(you little piss-ant Come BACK here)

but his feet tangled underneath him and all he managed to do was trip and fall at the foot of the stairs. His chin bumped the lowest step and left a smear of blood on the beige carpet.

(Christ Jack look at the damn FLOOR)

He stared at it for a few seconds. Then he began to cry.

"Shit," he muttered, and he dragged himself up to sit on the stairs. Through his fingers, he watched individual carpet fibers slowly pop back up as the blood they had been glazed with began stiffening in the cold air leaching in through the open door. For some reason, he couldn't stop looking at it. That swipe of bright red suddenly held all his attention, and he realized that it reminded him

(and when I see the blood)

of something, some story

(I will pass over you)

he had heard before, that maybe his mother had read to him. No, that was wrong. Not his mother. Jeannie. Something he'd gotten from Jeannie. He sifted through his memories, trying to grab the right one, like maybe if he grabbed onto it quickly enough it would save him from drowning. Finally he managed a flicker of an image, something about that story, the blood swipe, and—

And that stupid, unrelenting stained glass window. The one with Jesus praying in the Garden, little chips of red glass making a mosaic with the white of his forehead as his sweat turned to blood. He'd stared at it a lot when Jeannie's parents had dragged them to church, telling himself he was just fascinated by the detail but really being fascinated by the whole idea of it. Sweating blood, of all things. What the hell kind of religion was this, anyway? Why did everything have to be about blood? Every other page, there it was. Jesus sweating blood, washed in the blood of the Lamb, whatever that meant, the wine that was blood but actually wasn't (or maybe it was, depending on which bunch of them you asked), the blood on the doors—

(and when I see the blood I will pass over you)

That was it - that was the story he was remembering. The one with the plagues. Where they had to put the blood over the door, so the angel of death wouldn't come in their house and

...and….

And what, Jack? Why don't you just say it?

"No," he muttered, his hands sliding down to cover his mouth as the complete meaning of Jeannie's words began to sink in. "No…. no, no, no…"

SAY it.

(and there shall be a great cry)

"No," he repeated, the force muffled by his fingers, but the comprehension was coming now without his consent.

(throughout all the land of Egypt)

Just SAY it.

"Shut UP…."

(and all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die)

"SHUT UP!" This time he realized he was screaming, and when the tension was gone from his stomach, an overwhelming wave of nausea took its place. He turned and scrambled up the stairs, and he almost made it; then his foot caught on the top step and he went sprawling just outside the bathroom door. He crawled the rest of the way into the bathroom and vomited on the rug. It burned coming up.

Of course, that was to be expected. It was mostly whiskey, after all.

(Christ Jack look at the damn FLOOR)

He had almost wiped vomit from his lips into the cut on his chin before he remembered it and changed the direction of his hand. "You're not real," he whispered shakily. The mocking voice he had addressed simply crossed its invisible arms, if that was possible.

Of course I'm real, Jacky-boy.

"No...no, no…. You're not...fucking...real." He pushed himself up onto his knees. This time he heard laughter.

Thought you weren't going to use that word again. You know. "On principle."

"Shut up."

Hey, kid, if I wasn't real… you wouldn't have to tell me to shut up, now would you? Of course I'm real. Well, I was real enough for Jeannie, anyway. Right?

And for that, Jack had no answer. He had the rug in front of him, sticky with vomit, and the hot tears on his face, but no answer.

She was going to kill their baby. And it was completely his fault.

Jack slumped back onto the floor, laid his head on the tile, and let himself float into the grey at the edges of his vision.

When Jack came to, he was staring into the painted eyes of the plaster bulldog statue Jeannie had used as a doorstop. His only indication of how long he had lain there was the crusting at the edges of the puddle of vomit. That, and the searing cramp that flashed through his neck as he tried to sit up. He rubbed at his eyes and felt the dusty track of evaporated tears. For one peaceful moment, he wasn't fully sure of where the tears had come from, or of where he was. Then the ticking of the clocks in the utterly quiet house seeped in through the silence, and he remembered.

Jeannie had said she was going to have an abortion. She was gone, and before she was finished, their baby would be, too. And as much as he wanted to sink back into the grey fog he'd just come out of, he realized he was now going to have to think about that fact. He couldn't go on sitting in the bathroom floor and ignoring it. Ignoring reality would just be opening the door for insanity.

Oh, I think you opened that door a long time ago, Jacky-boy. Wouldn't you agree?

Jack ground his teeth together to keep from answering.

In a different situation, as a bystander rather than as a participant, perhaps, Jack would have found the intensity of his feelings somewhat ironic. He'd never really held much of an opinion on abortion before now. If pressed, he might even have said Why the hell not? You can't kill something that was never alive, right?

Except at that moment, Jack was wholly, infinitely sure that that baby, his baby, the one riding quietly away from him through the dark, nestled behind Jeannie's steering wheel - that baby was very definitelyalive

(for now)

and right then, Jack couldn't fathom how anyone could think otherwise. Jeannie was going to kill their baby, and there was no other way to say it, no convenient philosophy to smooth over the truth. And she was going to do it because of him. Jack leaned his head against the bathroom door and stared at the popcorn ceiling, trying to ignore the constellation of lumps that looked suspiciously like a whiskey bottle.

Now, see, son? You, ah… you should have given Dear Old Dad a little more credit. Least I never killed anybody.

Jack winced, jerking suddenly enough that he hit his head on the doorknob. That time, the voice hadn't sounded like a snarky whisper at the back of his brain. That time it had sounded like it was in the room, and it had been followed by the faint, familiar clink of a bottle being put down on a counter. Jack scrambled upright, clawing at the rim of the sink to pull himself up, and stared into the mirror.

"Shit," he whispered in relief. He had half expected to see James' face staring back at him instead of his own. But the reflection was his, complete with the bloody chin and the hollows under the eyes. He dropped his head, clutching the counter with white knuckles, and a wry chuckle tumbled out of his mouth. "Like hell, you never killed anybody," he muttered to the floor. "What do you think happened to that kid who tried to show you that card trick?"

Well, ah… last I checked, son, he was standing right here in front of me.

Jack snapped his head up to face the mirror.

In the mirror, James winked.

"FUCK!" Jack shrieked, and his arm rocketed out in an instinctive jab. James's smirk disappeared in a cataract of falling glass; shards caught the light and threw sparkles around the room as they fell into the sink. The sound was all too familiar, and Jack staggered backward until the towel rack prodded him in the shoulder. When he looked down at his hand, the blood was just starting to seep up and fill the lines on his skin. He grimaced and reached for the towel that should have been behind him. It wasn't there. Jeannie had taken that, too. "Ah, hell," he spat, and pulled off his sweater. It would have to do. It already had blood on it, anyway. Might as well.

CLANK.

Jack looked up, startled. The medicine cabinet door had dropped into the sink to join the glass that had recently covered its surface. He had managed to break the hinges, which hadn't really been great to begin with, if he was being honest. Jack stared stupidly at the mostly empty shelves (she cleaned that out, too?) for a moment, before realizing that there was an old first aid kit still sitting on the highest of the three. He had forgotten they even had it. He grabbed it down gratefully and popped it open, keeping his right hand over the sink and rummaging with his left. Under the butterfly Band-Aids and antiseptic, there was a box of sterile gauze pads – although how the hell he was going to bandage his own right hand, he wasn't sure. But he thumbed the box open anyway and dumped the individually wrapped packets out on the glass-littered counter. Maybe if he could—

Jack stopped with the corner of a gauze packet in his teeth. At the bottom of the first aid kit box was a long, flat package labeled "Triangular Bandage." It was the kind you were supposed to put a broken arm in, tied around your neck like in a cartoon. He'd never in his life seen anyone actually use one.

Well, that's why you picked that spot in the first place, huh, Jacky-Boy? The voice sounded splintered and echoic, like James was speaking now from each of the hundred chunks of glass that littered the bathroom. You break an arm, Jeannie just drives you to the hospital. No way she'd ever need to even open that package. And you knew that right off, son. Didn't you?

Of course he did.

Jack dropped the gauze pack and reached into the kit, slipping the flat package out and turning it face down on the counter. It would take someone really suspicious to notice that the seal had ever been broken. Jack started to tease his pinky into the corner of the seam… and then he simply tore the package open. The bandage flopped out on top of the first aid kit, allowing the sandwich bags that had been inside it to slide out from between the folds. The one on top was cocaine.

The second one looked a lot like heroin.

Jack opened his mouth to curse and then shoved his thumb against his lips instead, chewing at his cuticle without being aware that he was doing it. Naturally, he had hidden drugs there. It was no place Jeannie would ever look, inside a sealed medical package. He only vaguely remembered doing it, of course, but it made perfect sense. And obviously, that would be the one thing she would leave behind.

Well.

Not the only thing.

She hadn't, for instance, taken his old hairbrush from college out of the bottom drawer – the one with the hollow handle. And she hadn't taken the clock in the hallway either (the one with the bag taped to the back), or the old stereo remote that didn't work (tucked in his nightstand, with the Saran-wrap pouch inside the battery compartment). And she certainly hadn't taken the bed, oh, no, that would never fit in a car. So the hollow brass balls that unscrewed from the bedposts were still there.

"Oh, no," Jack muttered to himself, still chewing his cuticle. "No. Fucking drugs got you in this mess in the first place."

Hnh, he heard James chuckle from the pile of glass. Like there was ever a time when you weren't in a mess. And if he listened closely enough, Jack could almost hear the sound of whiskey being poured into a tumbler. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished the voice was wrong.

Jack sat on the bed twenty minutes later with his hand wrapped sloppily in gauze and his inventory laid out, taking stock. All of the half-full whiskey bottles were lined up from his pillow to the space where Jeannie's had been; there was a healthy amount of cocaine; there was more pot; no needles he could find, but enough for at least a couple good snorts of heroin; and wonder of wonders, there were the shrooms he'd forgotten he had – slightly squished from being shoved into the balls on the bedposts, but a nice surprise. Jack sipped nonchalantly from one of the bottles as he planned out his next move. Whether he would still be following the plan an hour from now, when he was stoned out of his mind, well that wasn't terribly important. It just paid to have a plan. He would need to get messed up enough on everything else before he took the shrooms, so he could hallucinate puddles and talking hats instead of corpses, that was the most important thing. And maybe save the heroin for last, in case he blacked out. And then, when he woke up, he would be able to decide what to do. He had always done his best thinking when he was coming down off shrooms anyway. Prime idea-time.

Of course, there was always the possibility that he had just enough coke and heroin here to accidentally overdose.

Well, ah… at least then you wouldn't have to wake up and deal with the thought of your dead baby, now, would you?

This time he wasn't sure if the voice was James or himself. But he was pretty sure that it didn't matter, as long as it was right.

Jack finished off the bottle, tossed it onto the white mass of Jeannie's wedding dress, and unzipped the bag of weed.

He made it a night to remember - except he wouldn't remember it, not really. Not most of it, anyway. Not with the part of his brain that moved and breathed. And over time, he would take what was left of the memories and quietly push them further into the dark. They were only a few small moments, anyway.

First the TV wouldn't work, but then he realized he was trying to use his cell phone as the remote. Then it wasn't the TV he was looking at, just the living room window.

"I think you've got a problem here, son," James said.

"TV won't turn on."

James poured himself a glass and handed the bottle to Jack, which he took robotically. "And whose fault is that, hmm?"

When I said down in the floor, I meant it. You're blocking the fucking TV.

"Mine, Dad. I guess it's mine."

He took a drink.

The room was swaying back and forth. Or was it him? Jack looked down at his arms to be sure; well, they were swinging, but that didn't answer the question, now did it? If the room was swinging, they would be too. Sure. That made sense. So was he moving, or the room? He figured it probably didn't matter.

The clock, though. That would have to stop. Thing sounded like a fucking snare drum echoing down the hall. He pulled it down and ripped the batteries out. That would show it.

"You're in a pickle, son."

"What?"

James was sitting across the dining room table, pouring another drink. He repeated it like Jack was stupid and didn't understand.

"I said, you're in a pickle."

"What?"

"See for yourself."

Jack looked down. Sure enough, he was in a pickle. Floating in it like it was a giant balloon suit. That would explain why everything was green.

"I think you've got a problem here, son," James said.

"Yeah, Dad. I know."

The clown with the fake pot-belly hidden inside a purple-grey checkered suit and a 1920s style flat cap on his huge curly wig made a beeline for James and Jack at the end of their row. His face was painted white, with dark brows and a bright red smile. He shuffled closer to them in his two-foot-long shoes and then bent close to Jack, holding a gloved finger to his lips as if he were sharing a secret. Jack stared up at him, fascinated. The clown gave James a wink over his son's shoulder, and James gave him one back; then the clown stood up straight and flung his suit coat open with a flourish. A cloud of playing cards burst out like an explosion from somewhere in the clown's chest and fluttered in the air like small paper birds.

Jack jerked upright at the dining room table, lucid enough for a moment to remember that he was alone. That was disappointing – the circus memory was a good one. If he absolutely had to be hallucinating something from his childhood, of course. He looked down. Little chunks of the mushrooms were scattered around on the table in front of him. For a moment he had mistaken them for the cards. He must have already eaten the majority of them. And so far, no sign of a bad trip. That was encouraging. He reached for his drink but couldn't find it.

"Oh, here you go, son."

James pushed the drink across the table from where he'd been the whole time. Jack looked down – and immediately recoiled. The mushrooms were crawling across the tabletop like worms. If he listened closely, he could hear them beginning to hiss. Terrified, he looked up at James.

The clown was sitting beside him, his face crawling with them as well.

Jack screamed.

The clown in the purple-grey suit and huge curly wig made a beeline for James and Jack. His face was painted white, with dark, hollow eyes and a bright red smile. He shuffled closer to them in his two-foot-long shoes and then bent close to Jack, holding a gloved finger to his lips as if he were sharing a secret. Jack stared up at him, horrified. The clown gave James a cruel wink over his son's shoulder, and James gave him one back; then the clown stood up straight and flung his suit coat open with a flourish. A cloud of wriggling maggots burst out like an explosion from somewhere in the clown's chest and splattered down around them like a putrid rain shower.

"I think you've got a problem here, son."

"Ma, take it easy, hmm?"

Mags was straightening his tie.

"I'm getting married, not dying."

"Are you sure about that?"

Jack looked again. It wasn't Mags, it was Angie. The stain down the front of her lavender dress was still fresh, almost as fresh as the accusation on her face. And the tie around his neck was a noose.

Jack was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, staring at his own wide eyes and heaving chest. Had he been running? Maybe. He couldn't remember. Everything was a blurry shade of purple. The heroin wasn't on the bed anymore, and his sleeve was rolled up. Had he done it already? Had he shot up? Hell, he didn't even have a kit, how had he shot up? Did he find a kit he forgot he had? And for that matter, if he had shot up, why wasn't he WARM? He was leaning on the dresser, and his arms were shaking and covered in gooseflesh. Shit, maybe he hadn't. He certainly didn't feel anything

"Ange, take it easy, hmm?"

Angie was straightening his tie.

"I'm getting married, not dying."

"Are you sure about that?"

Jack looked again. It wasn't Angie, it was Jeannie. She jerked the tie (noose) tight around his throat, eyes spitting fire.

"You can't get married, Jack. You can only get married if you mean it."

and then he was running down the hallway, looking for the stairs but not finding them. He coughed, trying to get his breath back, trying to breathe through the hot air and the lingering sensation of being strangled. He pushed something over, probably broke it. He wasn't sure. If it was his house, then why couldn't he find any of the damn doors? There was something at the end of the hall and he ran to it, only to find himself standing under the stained glass Jesus window

(andallthefirstbornshalldie)

staring at the little glass blood drops. When they started to wiggle like maggots, he lurched in the other direction, running back the way he had come. Somewhere in the distance, someone was playing the wedding march out of tune. Jack ran for the bedroom and slammed the door, locking it behind him. He stood for a minute with his forehead against the lintel, waiting for the horrific music to stop. Then he jerked around at the sudden rustling in the closet. Jeannie's wedding dress was picking itself up off the floor, a bright amber stain down the front from the bottle he had thrown. Jack stood rooted to the spot as it slouched toward him.

"Ma, take it easy, hmm?"

Mags (no)

Angie was straightening his tie.

"I'm getting married, not dying."

"Are you sure about that?"

Jack looked again. It wasn't Angie, it was Jeannie. She jerked the noose tight around his throat, eyes spitting fire.

"You can't get married, Jack. You're too much like your father."

"I—"

He looked again. It had been Mags all along. One half of her face looked at him reproachfully, a hard and accusing stare. The other half slowly dripped away from her skull, stinking of decay and oozing over her bloody collar and onto his shoes.

Jack shrieked and attacked the door, finally managing to wrench it open and escape the bedroom that was empty except for him.

The room across the hall was cool and grey and for just a second, Jack thought he was sobering up. His arms crawled with itch, and he dug at them recklessly with dirty fingernails. Yeah, if he was itching he was coming down. Had to be. Good fucking thing, too.

"Well, look who finally showed up to the party."

James stepped out from behind the door as he pushed it shut, and Jack fought back vomit as he realized he was trapped in the (would have been) nursery. James went on talking, passing Jack a full bottle. "You're a little late, buuuttt… hey. It's okay. You, ah… you still get to be my best man." He straightened the corsage on his purple-grey lapel and brushed lint from his green vest. Jack stared, too dazed to move or reply. James leaned over and took the hand that reached out to him from the closet. Jeannie stepped out in a billowing white dress, already big with child. James stretched up and touched the mobile hanging from the ceiling; it wobbled in a slow circle for a moment and then creaked to life, tinkling out a lullaby version of "Here Comes the Bride." Jack watched in horror as James began to walk the length of the room with Jeannie on his arm; the window at the end was stained glass, and there was an altar and a priest waiting.

Something tugged at the leg of Jack's jeans, and he bent down.

"It's okay, Daddy," the little blonde girl reassured him. There was blood seeping through the bosom of her white lace dress. She reached up to straighten his tie.

James turned to look back at Jack, and he winked.

Then he shoved his switchblade into the swell of Jeannie's stomach.

"NO NO NO NO

FUCKING

NOOOOO!"

Jack collapsed into the corner of the hallway, bits of plaster clinging to his sweat-damp skin. He rested his head against the wall a few inches away from the hole he had just pounded in it, wondering if it would all be over if he could just find the front door and get outside into the

(street and let a car hit him)

fresh air. He wasn't sure.

"Daddy?"

The voice was coming from the room behind him. Jack dropped his head and cried.

The clown in the purple-grey suit made a beeline down the hall toward Jack. His face was wet and white, with black, hollow eyes and a blood red smile. He shuffled closer in his stained shoes and then bent close to Jack, holding a leather-gloved finger to his lips as if he were committing Jack to a deadly secret. Jack stared up at him, mortified. The clown that was James gave his son a wicked smirk; then he jerked upright and flung his suit coat open with a flourish. A cloudburst of blood and bits of flesh sprayed out in an explosion from somewhere in the clown's green vest and drenched Jack in a hot, red bath.

Swiping blood from his eyes, Jack shoved his father aside and ran for the bathroom to vomit.

The mirror was back on the wall again, its pieces puzzled back together, and Jack stopped to stare in spite of himself. He tried not to believe what he saw, but of course, mirrors didn't lie. Looking back at him out of the mirror was the clown, curls wet and hanging, makeup beginning to run, clothes ripped and splattered with blood. He was grinning, but it was no longer his father's patronizing smirk under the red greasepaint.

Jack felt another little hand tugging on his pant leg as he realized who the face belonged to.

Himself.

"Daddy?"

Jack screamed until the edges of his vision sparkled and his legs ceased to hold him up.

He was making sense now.

Damn, but he was making sense.

Jack Napier sat across the dining room table from his father, rolling an empty tumbler between his hands, wondering how long he'd been there doing that, wondering if he'd actually been anywhere else all night, wondering how he'd gotten back there if he had, and trying not to look at James or hear what he was saying. James was smirking with his eyes. Or maybe it was just James's image in the dining room window. Or maybe it was Jack's own reflection. Hell, did it matter anymore? Jack didn't think so. He figured he was still high, but it was getting harder and harder to tell the difference. The bevels on the tumbler clicked rhythmically against the table as he rolled it, and he began to laser-focus on the sound.

clunkclunkclunkclunk

"You'd better quit playing with that and use the damn thing." James drained his own without looking away from Jack, and there was a black look behind his smirk that hadn't been there before. "Pour yourself a drink. That's what it's for."

"Don't want any," Jack lied.

"Then stop rolling it around like some stupid toy and put it away. That's baby shit. Are you a baby, Jack?"

Now, he'd heard that one before, of course. But he wasn't sure he knew how to answer it now any better than he had when he was fourteen. So he just kept quiet. James wasn't amused.

"Drink. It," he pressed, putting his own tumbler down harder than necessary.

"Fuck you," Jack whispered, but there was no power behind it.

"Oh, ah… that's original. Got any other zingers you'd like to add? Take a drink, son. Put some hair back on your chest. Assuming you ever had any to begin with. I, ah… I guess that wife of yours never liked chest hair anyway - now, what was her name… you know, I'm already starting to forget—"

"Think you could leave her out of this?"

"JEANnie, that's it. Jeannie. Of course. No, no, she liked you this way. Smooth and hairless. Like a baby. But now that JEANnie is out of the picture, you can grow all the hair you want."

"STOP saying her NAME," Jack spat, bringing the tumbler to a sharp halt.

"Why?" James countered, and all the pretense of friendliness was gone. His eyes were black. "Don't look at me like that, you little pussy. What, you can't handle hearing her name? Well, I've got some haaard news for you, Jacky-Boy; you're gonna be hearing that name for a good, long time. At first, it'll be the people who haven't heard the news. The friend you meet at the store who says Oh, how's Jeannie? and you'll have to lock up your face while you tell them you don't know, because you haven't spoken to her in weeks. Or the old coworker who calls you up to invite you to some stupid thing, and they ask if Jeannie's coming. And you have to listen to them get all embarrassed when you tell them why she's not. And that'll keep happening until every single person you ever knew has heard. And that…." He opened his arms theatrically, spilling a few drops of whiskey. "Hell, that could take years. You could be six years out, married again and fucking up some other woman's life, and the two of you'll run into some guy you had one class with at GSU, and he'll ask you hey, what happened to Jeannie? And you'll have to stand there in front of Wife Number Two and come up with some answer other than I did. I happened. And even that won't be the end. Will it?" He watched Jack's face for a moment, until Jack dropped his eyes and went back to rolling the tumbler. Clunkclunkclunkclunk. James smiled, pouring himself another.

"Nope. No, sir. That'll just be half of it. The other half is going to be all the lawyers. This house that has both of your names on the lease. All the times you'll have to sign your name right next to hers - except it won't be Jeannie Napier anymore, will it? No, sir, it'll be Jeannie MacMillan again. And you'll have to watch how much easier she'll sign that than she ever signed your name—"

"Shut up," Jack muttered, letting the tumbler roll to the center of the table, forgotten. James ignored him and barreled on.

"—and then, of course, after the lawyers, there'll be the doctors, and nurses, and the people who won't let you in the delivery room, and— oh! Well, shit, I forgot. There won't be any of those, will there? Oh, well. That birth certificate is just one less thing you'll have to sign next to her. Good work, Jacky-Boy, you saved yourself that job, at least."

"Bastard," Jack spat, realizing he was crying. James put on an expression of bewilderment.

"Me?" he simpered, putting his hand daintily against his chest. "Ah, as I recall, I wasn't the one who lost his job, reverted to being a junkie, fucked half of the women in Gotham, and then decided to bring a kid into that."

"Job wasn't my fault," Jack managed, putting his hands over his face.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, son," James conceded, his one raised eyebrow full of condescension. "How are you sleeping these days, anyway? Just curious. You look tired, son. Are you tired?"

Exhausted, Jack wanted to say - did say, in his head - but he kept quiet. James, however, went on as though Jack had answered out loud.

"Well, I would be too if I spent my days shooting heroin and my nights whoring around to get more of it. At least, I guess I would. I wouldn't actually know much about that. Me, I'm a decorated war hero who gave up a leg for his country, handed that job back to them amiably, and spent over two decades in a faithful marriage and raised a kid."

"Oh, like HELL," Jack said finally, unable to let him go on. "No, you never fucked anybody else, but you sure as hell launched ash trays at her head and screamed at her like she was trash. I, ah… I fail to see how that's better." There was an edge of a laugh in his voice, the kind that precedes hysteria.

"Well, she never went and aborted you, so I'd say that's just a smidge better. Don't you think?"

Jack glared at his father, the muscles in his face jerking with suppressed rage. James lifted his tumbler in a toast. Jack growled and jerked up from the table, sending the chair flying backward as he stormed out of the empty room.

He found himself in the entry of the living room a minute later, staring blankly at the chair by the TV. James was there, lounging with his hands behind his head.

"Hey, now, I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, don't you?" He nodded without waiting for Jack to reply. "Hell, kid, I'm not trying to beat you up over it, honest. Just trying to give you some advice. Like a Dad is supposed to. I'm just saying that maybe you should look at all this as an act of mercy."

"What?" Jack answered, the cry in his voice starting to turn to disgust. James shrugged.

"Don't get pissy. I just thought that maybe... in light of what you've learned about yourself today… that you might come to the conclusion that you not being a husband and father is a good thing."

Jack crossed the space to his father in two steps and leaned into his face. "How the FUCK is getting my kid murdered a GOOD thing, hmm? Tell me that."

"Ooo-HOO," James chuckled, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Touchy. When did you develop such strong conservative opinions about abortion, hm? Geez, kid, I was just suggesting an alternative mindset you might want to consider. Unless you like feeling the way you do now. Then, by all means, go right ahead."

Jack growled and shook the chair, but then he made himself stand up and back away. "I don't want your advice."

"Well, I'm the only one offering any at the moment, so you might as well." He indicated the chair across from him, but Jack ignored it, and James just shrugged again. "Listen, kid. I'm not saying you didn't give it a good try. Really. You did. A for Effort. But the fact is, some people just aren't made to be fathers and husbands. You just don't have it in you like I did."

Jack stared at him for a minute, completely staggered by James's words. Then his face contorted with loathing.

"I...AM… YOU!" he screamed. The silence that followed was almost deafening, and Jack began to wish he hadn't ripped the clock apart. The ticking might have kept him sane. From his chair, James stared him down with half-lidded eyes.

"Well. Now we're getting somewhere."

Jack swallowed a scream and whipped around toward the door.

He made it almost up the stairs before James spoke again, this time from the upstairs hallway. Jack rounded the corner and saw him lounging just outside the bedroom door, his head resting against the big ornamental mirror. He lit a cigarette.

"Can't get rid of me, Jacky-Boy. You just said it." The smoke he breathed out was purple and billowing, and Jack had to fight off a wave of nausea.

"Didn't… say shit," he coughed, and James giggled.

"Oh, sure you did. Just a minute ago, downstairs. You finally said what everybody else always knew - you can't lose me, because you are me." He giggled again, this time letting it slip down into a faint hum, before sliding back up into a giggle again. "I am you, you are me… you're as fucked as fucked can be…."

"Shut up," Jack barked, but James kept laughing.

"Can't," he replied between chuckles. "I'm the voice in your head. I shut up, you stop thinking. Might even stop existing." He blew purple smoke in Jack's direction again and grinned. "And we, ah… we can't have that, now can we?" He tossed the cigarette onto the carpet at Jack's feet and looked at him expectantly. Jack turned on his heels and marched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

James started speaking as soon as the lock clicked home.

"She's better off, Jacky-Boy." Jack whipped around. James was grinning at him from the mirror, where his own reflection should have been. The grin was wide and dark and cold. "You can lock everybody else out, kid, but you can't lock the door on yourself. Now listen to me. She's better off. Just admit that. If not out loud, then at least in your head. Don't worry, I'll hear it either way."

"Just leave me alone, hmm?" It came out as more of a whimper than Jack had intended. That was bad. Letting James think he was breaking was bad. But dammit, he was breaking. He dug his fingers into his hair, trying to think. It was too hot. How was he supposed to think when the air was so thick? Jack suddenly felt like he was choking, and he began clawing at his t-shirt, trying to pull it off. He only succeeded in tearing the collar. James was laughing.

"WOOh-hoo...ha….ha ha ha HA!" The laugh rattled the whole medicine cabinet, making the contents tinkle. "Don't know what you think you're gonna accomplish there, kid - ah, in case nobody ever told you, it's pretty damn hot in Hell. Whoo-ha ha ha HA!"

"rrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRHHHH!" Jack growled. Abandoning the shirt, he picked up the first object he could find - the ceramic bulldog doorstop - and launched it in James's direction. It crashed into the medicine cabinet and sent bottles and boxes flying in all directions before dropping into the sink in three pieces. James's image stepped back into view, untouched. He was still grinning, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Yeah, that's right, Jacky-Boy. Come on. Take another shot, why don't you? Come on, you little piss-ant, HIT ME!" His voice rose with each sentence until he was practically screaming, and Jack shrieked in response, throwing every object he could get his hands on - the bits and pieces from the first aid kit, a bottle of something from the shelf behind him, even his toothbrush and a loofah. Then he was out of both energy and ammunition, and he slumped against the wall, hands on his thighs, struggling to take in enough air. The floor around him was littered with toiletries, ceramic shards, and broken glass, and he could see James's face in every single piece. They were all howling with laughter.

"Why didn't you just die, you bastard?" Jack finally choked out. It hurt to verbalize it, but once it was out of his mouth, he realized he didn't want to take it back. "Missile flattens the whole damn barracks, and thirteen other kids' dads or brothers or sisters didn't come home at all, but NO. No, I got this. Why didn't you just fucking DIE out there? Mm? WHY WASN'T IT YOU?"

The faces in the glass stopped laughing and fixed Jack with a hundred black, poisonous smiles.

"Theeeeere it is. The, ah… the taproot of this rotten tree we've been hacking at. This is where we've been heading all night, isn't it, son? Hell, this is where we've been heading for fifteen years, if we're being honest. All those times you wanted to take a swing at me, mm? Times you thought about sticking a kitchen knife in the back of my neck while I was sitting in that chair? When you… you would have killed me in my sleep if you'd had the balls? Hmm? Yeah, you wanted to, I know. Don't lie to yourself. You're way past that now. You wanted me dead, and you still do. So why don't you just do it? Why don't you just man up and kill me?"

Jack stared blankly at the mirror that shouldn't have been there. James was there, and he was in all of the pieces of glass on the floor, and Jack knew those pieces were there because he had shattered that mirror hours ago, but there it was on the wall just the same. He was still high. Had to be. Higher than he'd been in a long time. But that didn't make James's words any less true.

"Can't," he mumbled, trying not to cry again.

"Sure you can," James quipped. "Just do it. Come on, I want you to do it. Shut me up for good, Jacky-Boy. You've just gotta drum up the courage, and do it."

"You're not even really here!" Jack spat. The first of the fresh wave of tears reached his chin and dripped onto his chest.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." James was nodding as if agreeing quietly with himself. "Mm-hmm. Sure. Suuuurrrre I'm not. Except… I am. In a manner of speaking. And you know that. Don't you?" His voice had softened to a hypnotic baritone rumble, and as he continued nodding, Jack felt himself nodding along. Sure, James was there. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think it, but the fact was there in front of him - James was there. James would always be there. Every time Jack looked into a mirror, it would be James looking back at him. Every time he tried to be part of anyone's life, James's hands would be there, showing him how to ruin it. "Yeah, you know that," James purred, his voice becoming more sing-song as he went. "You ...know. And you know… that I'm always going to be here… unless you do something about me. Hmm?" He nodded again. This time Jack didn't nod along, but James didn't seem to mind. "So do it, son. Just do it. Kill me. You kill me, and you kill the pain. It's, ah… it's actually pretty simple, really. Kill me. Once and for all. And you know what? I'll help you."

The voice sounded different now, and Jack flinched as he realized where it was coming from. All of the faces in all of the pieces of glass had disappeared, save one - James was speaking to him now from a large and viciously pointed fragment on the corner of the vanity, a few inches away from his right hand. His eyes looked up at Jack softly in invitation.

"You shouldn't keep putting it off, is all," he muttered. "I mean, ah… I think you made up your mind about it a long time ago. Didn't you, son?"

"No," Jack muttered, and he tried to believe it. But images were floating back up to the surface of his brain, memories that he had pretended weren't memories, that he had pretended had never happened - standing in the bathroom at Nash's house, where he had counted Mrs. Carter's sleeping pills in his hand and cursed when he'd seen there weren't enough… the bar in the dorm closet that he'd tested to see if it would hold his weight….

….that morning in Ryder's shower, when he had taken the blade out of Ryder's razor and then put it back with shaking fingers, ashamed of his hesitation.

And now—

"Aaand now, you've got no more excuses. Do you, Jacky-Boy?" Jack didn't have a reply, but James didn't wait for one anyway. "No, sir. No more excuses. No baby to keep yourself alive for. You sure took care of that, didn't you?" Jack winced. "And hey, maybe it's a good thing you waited 'til tonight anyway. Because now… I'm here." The voice had become dark grey and nauseating, like the smell of burning trash. "I'm here," James lilted, "Daaaaddy's here. Your Old Man is here to make sure everything turns out right. I mean, you'd never get it done right by yourself, would you? You've been a failure since you were born, so why… stop… now? No...no, no. You want it done, you need help. Well, I said I'd help you, and I, ah… I'm a man of my word." And as he said it, the light glinted off the sharp point of the fragment of glass with all the beckoning power of a lighthouse. Jack felt sick.

But he picked it up anyway.

The reflection in the glass swam as Jack moved it closer to his face - James's wicked grin replaced by the smeared-blood smile of the circus clown, and then Jack's own face superimposed on them both, mingling into a creature of nightmares. He would stick the glass into his throat and that would be the end of it. No way to mess that up. As long as he managed the first puncture, he'd bleed out, and that would be that. Jack swiped his thumb across the surface of the glass, feeling the slickness of it, putting a merciful haze over his reflection. He fingered the edge and hissed. It was sharp enough, all right. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and nodded to himself. Without a gun in the house, he reasoned, this was the surest way. He felt around his neck with fingertips that were suddenly clammy and uncertain, finally locating his pulse where it beat the strongest. Just shove it in, right there, and that would take care of everything. Yeah, that would do it. Swallowing again, he brought up his other hand and laid the point of the glass against the place his fingers were marking. He tightened his grip on the glass.

"Of course..."

"Fuck!" Jack hissed in surprise and jerked his hand back down to the countertop. James, or the clown, or whatever it was, looked up at him from the glass with mock-sheepishness. The abruptness of the movement had caused him to slice his thumb, and a thin trickle of blood began to slide over the face in his hand as he recovered himself. "What?" he spat. "Jesus, I was about to do it. I thought you wanted me to do it. Don't interrupt me. Fucking hell." These last words were a mumble more to himself than to James. The face in the glass feigned apology.

"I was just going to say… that, well, if you want it to be that quick, son, then be my guest. I just thought you might like the punishment to fit the crime, for once. I thought you really meant it. Well, never mind. Probably for the best."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked half-heartedly, although he suspected he already knew. James sighed, as if explaining it was more trouble than he should really invest in.

"I just thought that if you really meant it, you wouldn't take the easy way out. The quick way. No, ...no, no, you'd make yourself hurt first. The way you made Jeannie hurt. Drag it out. Make it last. I mean, you've tortured her for a year, the least you could do is give yourself a little of that back before you go. But hey, what do I know. I'm just—"

"A hallucination," Jack spat.

"—your father," James finished unperturbed. "Father knows best, Jacky-Boy. Sooner you admit that, the sooner we can get this thing taken care of."

"What exactly do you want me to do?" He was looking at James's face without really seeing it, focusing instead on the haze of his blood on the glass. The shard was slick with it. James raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence, eyebrows that were now caked with the clown's black greasepaint.

"What do I want you to do? I want you… to smile."

Ryder slammed the door of his car and had his keys in the ignition before he stopped to question himself. "You're being paranoid, man," he cautioned himself and the empty car. "He's probably fine. Well, not ...fine, but… ah, dammit." He turned the car on in spite of himself. If he didn't go check, he wouldn't sleep tonight. Jack wasn't answering either the landline or his cell, and he wouldn't be able to sleep until he heard from him. He would drive by and make sure the house wasn't on fire or anything. Then at least his conscience would be clear.

He had gotten most of the way home after dropping Jack off before the gnawing feeling of unease had set in. He had eaten (some cold leftovers), showered (not a drop of hot water left), and had tried to settle in front of the TV three times before finally getting up and putting his coat back on. Jules had looked at him like he was an idiot when he had told her what he was thinking. You wanna walk in in the middle of that argument they're gonna be having? she had challenged him. But he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that it was turning into something more than just an argument, and that he'd better go check on his friend, because his friend was in deep shit - and as Ryder knew better than anyone else, Jack Napier did not navigate deep shit very well. Just going to take a look, he had promised. (and drag his ass back here, if I have to) was the thought that followed. He had a hunch that, no matter who had won the argument, Jack would be sleeping at his place again that night.

Traffic was unusually sparse even for nighttime, and he had to watch his speedometer closely. Nerves always gave him a bad case of lead foot, and tonight there were fewer people in his way. Even being careful, he made it from Red Hook to Fort Clinton in record time. He parked - and then he just sat. Worried or not, all of a sudden he just didn't want to go in there. Something was wrong, and it made him scared of what he might find. Of what he might be required to do. Well, the place wasn't on fire, at least. There was that. And he didn't hear any screaming, or see any objects hurtling out the windows. But something…. Something was off. It was like one of those pictures where you had to find the difference - a single object slightly turned, or missing its stripes, compared to the facing page. Ryder eyed the whole facade of the brownstone and the sidewalk in front of it. Jeannie's car wasn't there (oh shit her car's gone that's not good) but that wasn't it. That wasn't what—

The door.

The front door was standing open, spilling a bar of yellow light out into the street. And if there was one thing Ryder knew Jack always, always did, it was closing doors behind him. "Shit," Ryder whispered. He was going to have to go in. Jeannie was MIA, the front door was left open to the nighttime street, and Ryder was going to have to go in there and make sure his friend wasn't lying in the kitchen floor with a steak knife in his back. He licked his lips in trepidation and opened the car door apprehensively. The street was dead quiet. He scurried around to the sidewalk, glancing around him as he did - like he was somehow doing something wrong, like he wasn't supposed to be here and didn't want anyone to see him. He didn't know why he should feel that way, but he did just the same. Then he stepped into the patch of yellow warmth and slipped inside, nudging the door quietly shut behind him.

"Oh, man…."

Ryder gaped around. The living room looked like a grocery store before a big blizzard. Only two or three pictures remained on the walls, and empty frames were tossed around like used packaging. The short bookshelf was completely empty, and the taller one beside it had major gaps. A vase was broken under the side table in the corner. And Ryder thought he saw pieces of broken porcelain just outside the kitchen door.

"Jack?" he tried, but timidly. It seemed dangerous to shout in here. "Jack, man, you okay?" There was no answer. That was bad; he had been nervous before, but that made him actively scared. (she killed him she fucking killed him) He tried to brush off the thought as he poked his head cautiously into the kitchen, and (thank God) there was no body on the floor. A big black mark scraped across the tile, and the exploded remnants of a dish (and an empty whiskey bottle not a good sign), but no Jack. Further on he could see a dining chair flipped over at a crazy angle. The more he saw, the less he liked it. The whole ground floor was trashed, and Jack was nowhere to be found. Which meant he must be upstairs.

Ryder liked that even less.

"Jack, man, are you up there?" he called, but gently. He started to go up the stairs and then recoiled as he realized (i knew it she killed him she really did) that there was blood on the bottom step. Not a great deal of it, no, but blood just the same. She hit him with a coffee mug or something, Ryder thought as a tiny blossom of panic began to open somewhere near his diaphragm. Something glass, that's what all this came from, and he's probably up there unconscious, and shit, that means I'll have to drag him down here, and are you supposed to move people with head injuries? Forget that, can I move him? Dammit, Jules said I was out of shape and I didn't believe her but oh man he's six inches taller than me and I'm pudgy with bad knees and I don't think—

The scream from upstairs cut through his panic like a jagged sheet of plate glass.

"SHIT!" Jack screamed.

That had been his intention, at least - what he had heard himself shout in his head. What actually came out was a wet, pulpy sound that might have been a word in a previous life. His hands were hot and slippery with his own blood, and his whole face was enveloped in a sizzling, bright pink sort of pain, like a neon sign had been turned on behind his sinuses. The glass had been halfway up his cheek before he'd felt it, really felt it, like it had taken a few seconds to occur to him that he was in pain - and then it had come all at once, roaring hot and explosively quick. He watched slow, fat dribbles of his own blood hit the floor, spattering his jeans, bouncing jauntily off the tile, and soaking into the edge of the rug. It was this last thing that really got to him, watching the synthetic fibers begin to lie down under the weight of that moisture. It made his stomach turn and his knees buckle.

Jack clutched hard at the rim of the sink and tried to stay standing up. He couldn't let himself black out, not yet.

He still had to do the other side.

"JACK?"

Ryder pounded up the stairs, taking as many as he could at one time. He nearly tripped over the clock that lay sprawled in the middle of the upstairs landing, its entrails ripped out and strewn around it. "The fuck," he whispered, hopping over it. He poked his head into the first room he saw - the one they had been prepping to be the nursery. No sign of Jack, just a hole punched in the plaster on the hallway side of the wall. He ran across and checked the bedroom. It was trashed. Drawers lay open and empty. One bedside lamp was turned over, propped up at an uncomfortable angle on its shade. Jeannie's wedding dress lay in the corner surrounded by loose beads and broken glass. But it was what was on the bed that made Ryder shiver.

"Oh, shit," he muttered. "Oh, shit, shit, shit." The bed was covered with a scattering of empty baggies and discarded containers, and one of the brass balls was missing from the bedpost. A syringe lay on the remaining pillow. "SHIT," Ryder repeated, as if that would help him not panic. Not only was Jack probably hurt, he was also high as a fucking kite. Great. That would make rescuing him so much easier. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he ran back to the hallway and threw himself at the only door he hadn't tried - the bathroom.

It was locked. Of course.

"JACK?" he screamed. "Jack, are you in there? Let me in, you idiot! JACK?"

The other side was harder.

Academically, he had known that would be the case. Of course he had. But he had still thought he'd be able to do it. It would take more effort, naturally, once he knew how much the first cheek hurt, but he'd assumed that effort would be achievable.

Now, on his knees in his own blood, his arm slick to the elbow with it, he knew he'd been wrong. It wasn't just hard. It was going to be impossible.

His hands were shaking violently from the adrenaline, the blood loss, and the high he was coming down from. His head was getting swimmy. And the glass that had gone so swiftly and smoothly through his right cheek now seemed to have lost its edge. He had managed to put a short, jagged trench into his left cheek, but the shard was now jammed to a halt halfway up and was cutting into his palm with the pressure he was exerting to push it further. His throat pushed out dry, retching gurgles of protest as he tried another shove and felt more blood sliming up his tonsils. He realized it was no use. He just didn't have the strength left. Jack let go of the glass and felt it slide out of his face.

Then he slumped heavily onto the soggy rug, tasting the hot sludge of his blood filling his mouth and watching the edges of his vision begin to blur.

Out in the hall, Ryder beat on the door until his hands were numb. After the scream that had brought him upstairs, he had heard nothing except a few strangled, choking coughs. If he didn't get some kind of response soon, he was going to have to break down the door. And if he had to do that, then Jack was in deeper shit than he was prepared to handle by himself. He might even need a doctor. And if he took him to the ER, they'd find all the drugs in his system and he'd be in handcuffs as soon as he could speak in complete sentences. "Dammit," Ryder whispered. "What the hell have you gotten me into, Jack?"

Still beating on the door with one hand, he dug out his cell phone with the other. He dialed from memory.

"Come on, man. Pick up. Pick up, dammit— OLLY. Thank God. Shut up and listen, dude, this is bad. Are you sober enough to drive?"

The room was turning grey and fuzzy. He was cold. The survival compartment of his brain was shouting at him (take deeper breaths, dumbass, we aren't getting enough air), but he reached inside and turned it off. Survival wasn't something he was terribly interested in at the moment. He was dimly aware of a pounding noise somewhere behind him and figured it must be his pulse in his ears. The room wobbled underneath him, and he watched with detached amusement as the floor came up to meet his face. The rug was damp, sticky, and cool against the part of his cheek that could still feel it. At the edge of the rug, the shard of glass lay propped at a weird angle against a fragment of the plaster bulldog doorstop, his blood slithering down its surface to pool on the tile below it. James was watching him from behind the translucent red veil.

I think you've got a problem here, son.

"No shit," Jack tried to say, but all he managed was a wet sputtering of lips that moved like flags left out in a rainstorm. Each time he moved them he felt fresh rivulets of blood begin to run across his jaw and onto the already soaked rug. His vision tunneled until the only thing he could see clearly was the glass with his father's face in it. He braced himself for the inevitable gush of blood and forced himself to speak.

"You're not real," he dribbled, feeling blood sliding across his tongue toward his throat. In the glass, James grinned wickedly.

Neither are you.

When Ryder broke down the bathroom door five minutes later, Jack didn't hear him. The last thing, the only thing, he could hear as he slipped into a black nowhere-space was a grotesque parody of his father's voice ascending into screeches of spasmodic, terrifying, soulless laughter. And then, mercifully, he heard nothing at all as unconsciousness soaked into his ears like black water.

In the blackness, something stirred.

The Clown Prince, ladies and gentlemen!

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here 'til tuesday

They oughta sell tickets for that ride hon

lets do that again some time

funny as hell man

the clown prince ladies and gentlemen

the clown prince

the clown

CHRIST

look at my chair

look at the damn floor

look

what happened?

your son happened

thats the downside of comedy kid

youre always taking crap from jerks who dont get the joke

look dad who am i

who am i

wake up oh shit man wake up shit SHIT

Stay with me, man. Come on. Don't you dare fucking die on me, okay? Shit. Gotta… gotta put something on it….

Olly? Is that you? Upstairs bathroom….

Jesus Christ, Ryder, he's….

...you think you can…?

...hold it tighter, man, more pressure….

...bleeding down his throat, he's gonna choke….

...you take him, and i'll go get….

...die back there okay don't you dare

dont you dare

hear me

Why's he being so mean to the clown, Daddy? It was just a joke.

Ah, ...that's the downside of comedy, kid. You're always taking crap from jerks who don't... get...
the joke.

Dad, I wanted to show you something. Can I?

Can I?

can i

im dying holy shit im dying is this what it feels like hurts it hurts oh god it hurts make it stop blood i taste my own blood oh god what did i do how bad is it face cut my face cut my face cut up my fucking face because he told me to smile because he told me to bastard told me to and i did it fuck what was that it burns oh god it burns if im dying why does it still hurt like this jesus god help me make it stop wasnt supposed to take this long wasnt supposed to supposed to kill me bleed out pass out and die why am i still feeling it

why am i still

why still

still

….hold him still ryder i gotta….

...thought he was out….

...too, but he's got such a high tolerance, man. I'm gonna have to give him extra.

Well do it, he's thrashing.

There. And that's all I've got on me right now, so it'll have to hold him.

Jesus, it looks bad.

It is bad. ER wouldn't be touching this if we took him there, he'd go straight to surgery.

Well damn, Olly, can you do it, then?

We don't have a fucking choice, do we? It'll be a hack job… never stitched anything like….

...think it'll hold?...

...has to or he cant eat….

turn his head

turn

Turn around and look at me, son.

No? No? Whatsa matter - are you, ah… are you scared of what you might see?

leave me alone

Can't do that, kid. We passed that a looonnnng time ago. Now look at me.

Look at me, kid—

No—

LOOK AT ME!

LOOK AT ME

Look at me

look son, who am i?

who am i

am i

i am

I Am

I Am That I Am

Jeannie, what the hell does that even mean?

Shhh! Mom will hear you!

Okay, but you've gotta help me out, here. I don't speak Preacher.

I don't know! It… He's… God, and he's …mysterious, I guess.

Yeah, well, it sounds like he's avoiding the question.

Shhh!

And all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first….

(you know exactly what i meant)

And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt

(i'm going to have an abortion)

and all the firstborn shall die

(an abortion)

and when i see the blood

(im not raising another you)

the blood

...the blood...

blood i taste blood

what happened?

(you happened)

what happened, where am i?

Nowhere. You're nowhere.

...Daddy?

Oh, ah… Daddy's not here right now. Please leave your message, and we'll get back to you. Wo-hoo… hoo-ho-Ho… Woo-Ha-HaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!

He woke to pale blue-filtered light, and the sound of a distant siren that he had thought was his own scream. But it wasn't, of course. His mouth wouldn't open wide enough to scream.

Ryder shoved the handful of Skittles into his mouth and stared hard at the bedroom door. He didn't want to go in. He was tired, his hands were shaking with the need for a drink, and he absolutely did not want to go back into that bedroom. Bad enough, the smells of sweat and antiseptics and stale air; he didn't want to have to look into that blank face again. It terrified him.

It had been just over a week since he and Olly had scrambled into the apartment carrying their friend between them, dismissing Julie's questions as they lugged him into the spare room and put him in the bed. A couple days ago Olly had said he should be able to eat real food now, as long as it was soft, and so Ryder had dutifully started bringing in meals on the old Mickey Mouse TV tray Jules had dug up. None of it had been touched. Yesterday he'd tried to get it through to him that he had to eat – that people could only go so long without food. All he'd gotten was the bowl of mashed potatoes swiped off the nightstand and onto his shoes – and the whole time, those eyes had never once acknowledged him. His patient had knocked the food at him idly, like a disinterested cat, all the while not taking his gaze off the window.

Ryder swallowed the Skittles and tossed back another handful like pills. God, he needed a drink. He couldn't, though. He'd already had his limit for the day - Jules wouldn't let him drink more than bare minimum while they were babysitting an invalid, and besides – he guessed he needed his wits about him anyway if he was going to convince the reluctant patient not to starve himself to death.

It had actually been easier the first few days, he thought as he fingered the tray on the table. The morning after, Olly had produced a plastic tube from the big bag of medical supplies he'd filched from the Gotham General ER where he was interning, and had shoved it down the unconscious man's throat (Ryder had been worried that he had still been unconscious, but Olly had said that happened with traumas sometimes, especially if the person didn't want to wake up). Olly had been sober that morning too, something Ryder wasn't used to seeing, and he'd inserted the tube with practiced efficiency, but Ryder found he couldn't watch. The thought of a tube in his throat made him gag, and the sight of the stuff Olly had hooked up to it made it worse. He'd let Jules and Olly do all the nursing after that. He just couldn't do it. But at least then they'd been getting some nutrition in him.

Now he was awake (if you could call it that), the tube had been out for a couple days, and under no circumstances could he be convinced to eat. At first they had reasoned that it was the withdrawal - dizzy, nauseous, miserable people usually didn't want food, right? And he had been dizzy, nauseous, and miserable. No sign of seizures (Olly had kept a close eye on him for that until about the fifth day), and if he was hallucinating, he was keeping it to himself. But they'd heard him dry heaving enough to know he was definitely sick. And they'd assumed he'd start eating again, at least a little, once it passed. He hadn't, though. And Ryder had begun to face the unsettling idea that his friend was trying to starve to death. Hell, he had been trying to kill himself in the first place when they'd stopped him, right? It would figure they'd go to all that trouble to sew him up just to have him lie there in that bed until he wasted away. He'd had that conversation with Jules this morning, and she'd shrugged and put Cream of Wheat on the tray.

"Well, then you're just going to have to make him eat, Ryder."

Yeah. Right. Let her go in there and try it then, if it was so simple.

Swallowing the rest of the Skittles – they were suddenly clinging to his palate like cement that had been left to grow clumpy in the sun – Ryder steeled himself and picked up the tray. If nothing else, he'd at least pick up the breakfast he knew was still sitting in there and trade it out for this. He lifted his hand to knock, hesitated, and then knocked a little softer than he'd been about to.

"Hey, man. Lunch time. You decent in there?"

Ha, he thought. Sure he's decent. He's still wearing the clothes we put on him that night. Won't even get up to change his underwear. And naturally, there was no answer from inside. Sighing, Ryder opened the door. Two steps in, he paused.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. He had taken off the pajama shirt they had put on him, and Ryder noticed with a mild lurch of his stomach that there were still smudges of dried blood on his neck and upper chest. He hadn't moved to acknowledge Ryder's entry – but Ryder noted with some surprise that the glass of milk on the nightstand was half empty. The Cream of Wheat hadn't been eaten, but the spoon was in the bowl instead of beside it, and he supposed that was progress.

"Hey, man," he started nervously. No response. "You… you're up. That's good. That's… good, that… you… you need to move around, I guess…." The sound of his own voice in the close, stale room made him jumpy, and he got no indication that he was being heard. He cleared his throat. Cleared it again. Then he cautiously walked around to the nightstand, moving to put the tray down on the pillow while he switched the food.

There were little butterflies of blood brushed all over the surface of the pillow case. Like when Jules sleeps in her mascara was his first thought. The clumps of chewed Skittles rolled uncomfortably in his stomach, and he switched the food hurriedly and turned back around.

"I, um… I know you're probably getting pretty damn tired of mashed potatoes," he said with a nervous titter, "but OJ says you can maybe start eating real food in two or three more days. You know. Once the—" He had been about to say Once the cuts heal up enough, but he was suddenly very sure that he shouldn't mention them. "Once he thinks you're ready," he finished weakly. It didn't seem to matter, though. His friend wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the old steamer trunk behind Ryder, at the stack of clothes on top of it. A pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, boxers. The day after they'd brought him in, Jules had pointed out that he might eventually want something to wear that wasn't Ryder's too-fat, too-short pajamas, and so he'd ventured back to the brownstone (what a creep show that had been) and raked a couple drawers full of stay-at-home type clothes – socks, shorts, undershirts and sweats – into a bag. Of course, none of it had been touched for the past eight days, and Ryder had been starting to wonder if they'd have to peel him out of the PJs and force him to change. Now, however, he was at least looking at the clothes, and Ryder would take any sign of change as a good sign.

"Oh, yeah," he attempted, as if responding to something that hadn't been said. "Yeah, we, um… we brought some of your clothes and stuff. If you want to change. I mean, you don't wanna keep wearing my fat-man clothes, huh?" No response, but of course, that was what Ryder had begun to expect. "So you…you just… I mean, you know where the bathroom is, if you wanna shower, and… there's…your lunch, so…. Yeah. I guess I'll let you do your thing. Okay." And having nodded to reassure himself, he shuffled awkwardly back to the door. His patient still hadn't moved when he shut it behind him.

The pounding on the apartment door came a week later, when Ryder was least prepared for it.

"Ryder, I know you're home, open up."

The voice was muffled, but he still knew who was out there. It made him cringe. In the first place, he hated confronting upset people – especially when it was somebody else's drama and he was smack in the middle of it. In the second place, he was afraid her voice would carry down the hall to the spare bedroom, and he wasn't sure what kind of effect that might have. The day after he'd seen his friend eyeing the stack of clothes, he'd come in to find that he'd actually put them on, and the day after that he'd actually eaten the lunch they'd brought him. Well, most of it. He still hadn't said a word to anyone – probably for the best, actually, since his face was still healing – but at least now he was eating enough that they didn't have to worry about him hunger-striking himself to death. Progress was being made. And dammit, if that woman didn't choose right then to show up. Ryder didn't know if he was pissed or grateful that she hadn't shown up sooner. It had been almost two weeks, give or take, and he'd been starting to think she really, really wasn't going to make contact at all – like she had drawn a hard line in the sand between that night and the rest of her life and was not going to come back across it under any circumstances. But here she was, after all, and he was going to have to deal with her. He shot Julie a pleading look across the room, but she just shook her head and held her book up in front of her face. Nope. Your problem, Ryder. All yours.

"Ryder, your car is in the space, you can't pretend you're gone and hope I'll leave."

"Don't I wish," Ryder muttered, reluctantly dragging himself over to the front door. Okay, he coached himself. Okay, you talk to her, but you're not letting her in. No way, José. He ate his lunch today and changed his underwear, and we do not want anything to set him back.

"Jeannie," he said aloud when he'd opened the door, putting on a fake smile that he hoped she knew was fake. "What—"

"Is he here? And don't lie to me if he is." She was moving as if to come through into the apartment, and Ryder sized her up as he moved to take up a little more of the doorway space. She was bundled up against the cold – they'd had a light snow a couple days ago, and traces of it still clung to the edges of the balcony – but he could see that the hands in the fleece-lined gloves were balled into fists, although with anger or worry or just tension he couldn't be sure. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her lips looked chewed on and raw.

"Why?" he prodded. If she wanted to kiss and make up (not likely), well that was all well and good. But if she was just here to yell some more she could forget it. He watched her start to chew on her lip and then let go abruptly because the spot was tender.

"I went back to the house the other day to… I forgot about the box of stuff I had in his nightstand drawer, and anyway, we have to do something about the lease if… and… oh, God, Ryder, the house. The house looked…." She trailed off, but Ryder didn't need the rest of the sentence. He knew what the house looked like. "There was so much blood, Ryder," she murmured finally. "So much blood… but if he had… you know, if he was… well, he wasn't there, and I looked everywhere, and—"

"He's here," Ryder relented. "Alive," he added, because she looked like she was still thinking about the blood. "Will that be all?" There was a little edge to his answer, and he regretted it immediately when he saw the way her eyebrows crashed together.

"Excuse me?" she snapped. "Will that be all? I came here to see if my husband was alive or if he slit his own throat, and you Will that be all me like I'm taking up space in the twenty-items-or-less lane?"

"EX-husband," Ryder sneered, "if I interpreted your empty drawers and closet correctly. Did I? Or was moving out everything you own in one night just theatrics?" Jeannie pursed her lips and didn't answer, and Ryder nodded. "Yeah, okay, that's what I thought. No, Jeannie, you don't give a damn about whether he's okay, you just want him to sign paperwork. If you weren't worried about possibly having his death on your conscience, you wouldn't even be here. Would you?" This time, she looked down the walkway at the door of the next apartment, and he didn't need her to answer.

"Okay, but can I talk to him?" she said eventually, moving toward the door again. Ryder didn't budge.

"No. You can't."

"Ryder—"

"No, and he might be your ex-husband, but this is my house. He's not okay, Jeannie. And unless you're here to make nice, seeing you most definitely will not help him get okay. So if all you're here about is the lease, you can just …move along."

Jeannie tilted her head back and breathed in sharply through her nose, as if collecting her frustrations before they turned into missiles. "Fine. Just… just tell me what's going on with him. Where all the blood came from. Can you do that?" She crossed her arms. Ryder mirrored her stance and crossed his too.

"Yeah. Okay. I can do that. Um… what's going on with him is that whatever you said to him that night when you packed up, it must have been a real whopper, because first he tried to OD and then when that didn't work, he tried to slice his own face off." He watched her wince before continuing. "He would have bled to death probably if I hadn't gone to check on him later that night. We brought him back here, and Olly sewed him up—"

"Olly? God, Ryder, there are hosp—"

"Yeah, there are hospitals, and they like to call the cops when people come in with that amount of illegal shit in their systems. Not that you care anyway. Olly stitched him up, and he was a total fucking mess for a week, and he only just started eating and dressing himself voluntarily again a few days ago, so if you'll excuse me, I don't think I'm going to let you come in here waving paperwork around until I'm convinced he's not going to go batshit crazy on me. That's what's going on with him."

There was an icy silence between them for a minute or so, and in the quiet Ryder could hear the tinny little sound of icicles melting somewhere nearby. Jeannie clenched and unclenched her fists in their gloves, and the sound of the fabric whispering set Ryder's teeth on edge.

"Okay." It wasn't an expression of agreement but a grudging acknowledgement of defeat. "Okay. Fine. He knows the number at my parents' house. He can call me when he's ready to talk about signing papers."

"Oh, I'm sure he's just drooling at that prospect," Ryder grimaced. He knew it was probably uncalled for, considering the breakup was probably technically not her fault, but he couldn't help it. He just couldn't help it. He'd always gotten the idea that Jeannie had never really liked him, even in college, and now he was realizing that he didn't really like her either.

"Just tell him," she said flatly, and if he'd needed any confirmation that she hated him, it was there in her eyes.

"Yeah. Sure thing."

"Okay." There was a pause in which they both considered whether they should use some sort of conventional polite phrase to end the conversation and both decided against it. "Okay," Jeannie repeated. Then she marched off along the balcony toward the stairs, her boots kicking glassy shards of congealed snow as she went. Ryder let out a relieved puff of air and shut the door. Never again. Next time somebody had to talk to that woman, it wouldn't be him. No sir.

"Well that went well," Jules said from behind her book. Ryder snorted.

"We just better pray he didn't hear any of it."

There was a fly in the window. It was trying to get out through the glass and couldn't get it through its buggy little head that there was something in the way. Shoo, fly, he wanted to say. Go away. Buzz again another day. Or not. Hadn't he read somewhere that they only lived a day and then croaked? Or was that only one particular type of fly? Nah, he answered himself. A fly is a fly. And that fly would die. And there it was, wasting its buzz on the barrier it couldn't see with its little fly eyes. How many eyes did a fly have? A h—

You're cracking up.

He snapped his eyes open and stared graspingly at the ceiling of Ryder's spare room, like a man looking for a handhold to stop himself from dropping over a precipice.

No, he responded. No, I'm… not. Hell, a guy can think about flies without being accused of being crazy. Right?

Maybe. Maybe not. But you're only thinking about flies because you can't get your own buggy little head through the glass either.

What glass? he spat. But that was the truth, of course. He had been trying for days to remember exactly what had happened to get him in this pre-dic-a-ment – locked up in this still, blue, musty bedroom that smelled to him like puke and old sheets and self-loathing – but he just couldn't. Couldn't get from here to there. He hadn't forgotten, or at least, he didn't think he had; but every time he tried to go to that place in his memory where he knew the answer was, it was like he was met with an invisible barrier, an impenetrable force field through which living beings could not pass. A pane of window glass, if you will. He had buzzed against it futilely for a while, and now, in the absence of any result in that arena, he had switched to thinking about the fly in the window.

Everything hurt. Not just his face, no… no, no, that would be too easy. That hurt the worst, of course. But there was a slow, dull ache in every single muscle in his body, like they had all turned off and started to shut down and had then been forced to start back up again very much against their will. Maybe they had. Maybe he had died. Died and come back with rebooting muscles like a computer that had been restarted in the middle of some ponderous download, sluggish and laggy and full of static. He only vaguely remembered waking up the first time in that bed, looking at the room and the faces above him through a fog that distorted distance and motion. He vaguely remembered puking, and he guessed that counted for the sore throat - that, and he was pretty sure there had been a tube there at some point before he'd woken up. There had been a couple of days of spasming muscles and jumping at every noise, and Olly had been hovering at the door the whole time - watching him to be sure the withdrawal wasn't killing him, he guessed. And, of course, there had been the nightmares. If that's what they were. Nightmares, daylight hallucinations, or maybe he was just remembering whatever hell he had crawled through to get back to this damn spare bedroom with its damned blue curtains and its damned scent-memories of heroin and guilt.

The fly stopped buzzing for a minute, and he thought maybe it had died after all. Or maybe he had died. Was there a difference? Did it matter? Who has died, the fly, or I?

You're rhyming again.

What's your point?

Then the fly started buzzing again, and he sighed. Well. At least someone in this room still felt like making an effort.

From the other side of the door he could hear sounds bleeding in, all noises without context or meaning. Running water. Footsteps. Something high pitched from the kitchen. A low hum that might have been a television, or just Ryder and Julie talking. The rhythmic thumping of washing machines on a lower floor. Squeaking door hinges. Something closing with a thud and a click. All immaterial. He was more concerned about the incessant buzzing of the fly in the window. There was faint city noise seeping in around the glass – cars, horns, sirens, the rising and falling white noise that was the breath of a big city – but the fly was louder. The buzz was now disintegrating into something more like an anguished pizz! pizz! as the insect started to get desperate. Is that what it sounds like when a bug screams? he thought uneasily. Pizz! Pizz! Pizz! He knew if he got up and looked, he would probably see it writhing on its back, its wings propelling it in a jigging little circle as it tried to right itself. And boy, wasn't that the metaphor he wanted to avoid, considering the only reason he wasn't lying there on the bed pizz!ing at the ceiling himself was that it hurt to move his mouth.

So instead, you're just lying here on the bed obsessing about an insect and holding your piss as long as you can because you don't want to have to walk past the bathroom mirror. That looks an awful lot like pizzing at the ceiling to me.

Yeah? Well, what do you know?

It was true, of course. His bladder had been nagging at him for a while now to get it over with, at first an occasional annoyed reminder that had by now escalated into a low-grade scream from inside his body, but to do anything about it he'd have to leave the room, not only opening himself up to be looked at by Ryder and whoever else was out there, but then – oh, so much worse – having to walk past the bathroom mirror with his head down, hoping he didn't accidentally catch a glimpse of his own face. If that happened he would scream. And if just the barest movement of his mouth to eat felt like torture, a scream might kill him. And did he really want to do that to himself? Not I, said the fly.

Speaking of….

He became slowly aware that he couldn't hear the fly anymore. He rolled his head to the side, and then stopped abruptly as his cheek brushed painfully against the pillow. God, he was never going to get used to that. The need to be careful how or where he moved his face, being jolted awake at night because he'd turned over in his sleep - it would be like this until he healed up, and even after that, he guessed he'd be unexpectedly discovering the scars again every time he touched his own cheek. And shaving. Shit, he hadn't even thought about shaving. How was he supposed to shave? Would hair even grow on the scars? Even if it didn't, how was he supposed to shave around them? God, what a mess.

Maybe you should have thought about shaving before you sliced up your face, hmm? But you weren't really thinking about much of anything, were you?

Not I, said the fly.

Groaning down in his throat (but careful not to open his lips), he levered himself upward and let his legs drop over the edge of the bed. There was nothing else for it - he had to see if the fly was dead or just faking. He wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't.

You sure you want to go back to sleep? Lot of nasty movies playing on that screen.

Well. That was certainly true. But hell, what else was he supposed to do? Lie there on the bed and philosophize about flies for the rest of his life? It was either that, rejoin the world, or sleep, and given the implications of each, he knew which he preferred. He pushed unsteadily up off the bed and his knees popped like firecrackers. Trying not to ask himself how long he intended to stay in this bedroom, he shuffled across to the windowsill. The fly was dead. He poked it a couple of times to be sure, but there was no responding twitch or flutter. It was dead as Marley and the proverbial doornail. Passed on. Expired. Gone to meet its maker, bereft of life, kicked the bucket and joined the Choir Invisible. This was

"...an ex-fly," he whispered, finishing the thought aloud. The sound of his own voice in the quiet made him shiver, and he wished he hadn't spoken. Hell, for that matter, he wished he hadn't gotten up. His bladder was positively screaming now that he was standing, and the bathroom trip was now going to be inevitable. But at least he could give the fly a send-off first. He reached up and popped open the latches on the window, humming Taps as he did, the sound cutting in and out in his dry throat like a phone line with a bad connection. When he hit the high note his voice left him completely, and he sighed heavily in irritation before sliding the window upward. The cold air drove him back a step in sheer surprise - he had forgotten it was still winter - and the body of the fly rocked gently on its outspread wings as the breeze whiffled in around it. He felt his skin bubbling into gooseflesh as the temperature in the room dropped, but actually, the cold wasn't half bad. Some of the staleness and sepulchral quality of the room had been pulled out of the open window and replaced with air that, if not comfortable, was at least new. It was air that hadn't been breathed over for a sickly two weeks and had nothing to do with anything that had happened before. It was ...unaffiliated air. He took the first really deep breath he'd taken in days, felt the cold sting the backs of his nostrils and wash down his throat, and then squatted down in the floor.

With the fly at eye level now, he could see the threads of its six legs silhouetted against the cold white sky that was reflecting at him from the windows of the building across the street. Could have been you, he heard bouncing around somewhere behind his brain. "Should have been," he acquiesced in a croaky whisper. Fucking fly probably would have done better with its day or however-the-hell-long life than he'd done with two decades and some change. And he'd just listened to the little guy fight and scream for half an hour trying to stay alive and losing - while he, a ...higher-functioning organism with prehensile thumbs and a supposed capacity for advanced planning, had wanted to die and couldn't even pull that off correctly. Crazy old world, little guy. Cra-zy. "Trade you," he whispered. His breath rocked the insect on its wings again, but there was no other response.

What were you expecting, a ghost with Jeff Goldblum's voice?

No, not quite that, he allowed. Maybe just some sort of sign from the universe about what he was supposed to do after he gave this fly its funeral. He would definitely be here for a while, of course - until his face fully healed, until he could get sandwiches from hand to stomach without his cheeks bleeding. (And until Olly and Ryder are sure you're not going to just walk into traffic as soon as they let you out.) But after that… well, it was either stay or go. Stay here in this nightmare guest bedroom for the rest of his life, or go outside and face people again, face the world and job hunting and decisions (and face your own face) and everything that came with being alive.

"Shitty options," he whispered, barely opening his lips. It made his voice sound awkward, that attempt to speak without moving his cheeks, made the pronunciation a little foreign, gave it a little lilt he wasn't accustomed to. But it wasn't entirely unpleasant, that lilt. It sounded enough like someone else, someone who wasn't him, that it was almost welcome. But …lilt… aside, they were pretty shitty options. He didn't want to go out there and try being himself again with this face and this voice. He didn't want to have to look for a job (because that worked so well recently, right?) and ride busses full of people who stared at him and told their kids not to point because it was rude.

Of course, he didn't want to lie there pizzing at the ceiling like a dying fly until he croaked, either. He'd go crazy long before that.

Because you're not crazy now?

No. Of course he wasn't. He was just sitting on the floor, humming Taps and having funerals for dead bugs and toying with the notion of becoming a recluse. Of course, he wasn't crazy. This was perfectly reasonable. And he supposed it would do for the time being. But he couldn't keep doing this forever. If he stayed like this forever, he really would lose it. Hell, he might even lose it just during the time he'd be here waiting to heal up. But it was either get well, or get crazy - they were his only two options.

No, no, no. There's, ah… there's a third option that we haven't considered.

"Yeah, what's that?" he mumbled, although he was pretty sure he knew.

Well, you could always finish what you started. Then, ah… then you wouldn't have to stay here OR go out there. Would you?

"Can't," he spat softly. And it was true, for the most basic of reasons - he literally couldn't. Ryder had suicide-proofed the bedroom, or at least, he'd made it pretty damn difficult. Everything sharp was gone as far as he could see - no scissors, no letter openers, no razors. Took the silverware with him when he took the trays (and it was all spoons right now, anyway). Bar taken down from the closet, no hangers either. Window that only opened enough to get air, not enough to get a body through. Curtain rod wouldn't hold his weight. He supposed he could make a noose from sheets and maybe find something in the room to tie it to, but it'd be a slow choke, not a sure, quick snap. Slow enough they'd probably find him and stop him again. No, he just couldn't. Not here.

If you really meant it, you'd find a way. You can't because you don't have the balls to risk screwing it up again.

That wasn't entirely inaccurate, and he only resisted for a brief moment before letting it go. There was more to it than that, of course, but he didn't feel like explaining himself to disembodied voices. "Just too tired," he muttered weakly, and that was really the heart of it. Tired of the room, tired of himself. Tired of never getting anything right the first time, not even something basic like offing himself. Tired of going stir-crazy waiting for his face to heal up enough to go outside, tired of trying to decide if he even wanted to go out there when it did. He looked up at the slice of Outside he could see over the dearly-departed fly. It wasn't much, he thought wryly. Dark grey buildings and light grey sky and bruise-colored clouds slithering around above a lot of sirens and car horns and grime - and somewhere hidden behind all that, a fishy-smelling river. Really something to look forward to. Blue monotony in here, or grey monotony out there. Place your bets and spin the wheel.

A breeze whiffled in over the sill and wiggled the dead fly again, and he remembered what he'd been sitting there for in the first place. He pushed himself up with a grunt, waited for the circulation to come back into his legs, and then bent over the fly. Humming Taps again, he gave the bug a little flick of a salute before slowly and reverently pushing it over the edge into the Gotham winter outside. He put his forehead to the glass to see if it had fallen in the snow on the fire escape or maybe just been carried away by the wind; as he did, his eyes were caught by a movement among the cars below. A blue PT Cruiser was pulling jerkily out of the lot, its wheel slipping a little in a patch of ice near the entrance before it managed to slide out into the street. For about five seconds he knew who that car belonged to - the screaming was starting up at the back of his brain again and was on a fast track to reach his mouth - before the watertight doors slammed down somewhere inside and stopped it cold. The car was familiar, sure, but now he couldn't think of why. He just knew that once upon a time he had known who drove that car, and that for some reason it hurt him to look at it. Hurt him worse than the cuts on his face. If he kept looking at that car, he'd just break the glass in the window and slam his neck down on the jagged edges.

Good. That would do the job.

He backed away from the window before the little voice could get more persistent. He didn't need that right now.

No? Oh, ah… ex-cuse me, I thought you wanted out of here.

"Not like that," he mumbled through mostly-closed lips. "Shit, not like that." He backed away even further, until he felt the bulk of the dresser behind him.

Well, how, then?

He declined to answer. Absently, he began opening and closing the dresser drawers in an effort to avoid the voice. They were mostly empty except for the socks and underwear Ryder had brought him. But he had heard something rattle when he'd backed into the dresser, and now he wanted to see what it was, if for no other reason than to have something else to think about - it was better than arguing with a voice that wasn't there, and it was definitely better than pizzing at the ceiling. He finally found it in the last drawer he tried - a pencil, rolling around in one of the tiny corner drawers that was otherwise empty except for a little pocket notepad. He picked it up and rolled it back and forth between his fingers.

Well, whaddya know. Old Ryder missed something. Didn't he?

Again, he didn't answer - he just stared at the pencil's yellow ridged surface and tried not to let his tongue touch the ridges inside his cheeks. Ryder had missed something, that was factually correct. A pencil was a sharp object. Of course, he had his doubts about how sharp - he didn't really like the thought of how hard you'd have to jab to do damage with it - but it was, in fact, a sharp object that Ryder had missed when he'd swept the room for potential weaponry.

"Don't know if I can do that," he whispered after a few minutes. The urge to piss had come back to him sharply and all at once, his body joining forces with his brain to ramp up the urgency of the situation, and he grimaced.

Oh, you can do anything you put your mind to, the voice responded with a mocking, semi-parental lilt. Except maybe go back to being normal. That might be a biiiiitttt out of your reach, given the current, ah… situAtion. What you definitely can't do is just stand there holding that pencil for the rest of your life. So either be a man... and shove the thing into your neck ...or stop talking to yourself and start getting better so you can get out of this room in one piece. Either way, you've got a decision to make. Hmm?

For a few minutes he did just stand there, wiggling the pencil between his fingers, slow at first and then faster and faster, trying to make it bend. He reiterated the same thought he'd had sitting in the floor by the window - he didn't want to go back out there and try to be himself again, not with this screwed up face and unfamiliar voice. He'd never be able to look at his own reflection again without having a heart-stopping moment of non-recognition. He'd never be able to talk the way he used to without his tongue constantly touching the mountain ranges that would become scars inside his mouth, and he'd have to change his speech to keep that from happening. If he ever left this bedroom at all, it wouldn't be as the guy who'd gone into it. Whether he shoved the pencil into his throat or not, that guy was dead already. The guy he was trying to avoid in the mirror was somebody else. So the question was: did it matter if he finished the job, or was the new guy someone he could live with?

No… the question is… if the other guy is really dead… then do you want to keep bits of him still lying around, or do you want to erase what's left of him? Now. I think… that… is the real decision you have to make. So. Stay or go, what'll it be?

He stared at the pencil for another minute or two, the tip of his tongue sneaking furtively out to test the wound in the corner of his mouth as he thought. Then he gave a long, shuddering sigh.

"Ah, hell," he whispered.

Then he reached down, picked up the notebook, and began to write.

"You have to talk to him about it, Ryder. Eventually, you have to."

"Yeah, okay, eventually. But eventually can wait until it's safe to give him a razor again, right? And until then, let's just not talk about it, huh?" Ryder closed his eyes and lay back against the couch, hoping that would be the end of it. He didn't want to have to be the one to tell him. Naturally. Who wants to go into a sickroom and tell their recently suicidal best friend that their ex-wife didn't even care enough to check on them for two weeks, and when she did, all she wanted was their John Hancock on some papers? Nope. Not this guy.

"Ryder…," Julie admonished. She was scrounging in the depths of the refrigerator for something and, except for her butt, had completely disappeared behind the door. "Don't think that if you put it off long enough I'll just go do it for you," she said, her voice echoing around the milk and soda. "Because I won't." Ryder kept quiet, because that had been exactly what he had been thinking. Julie came out of the fridge with a tin of crescent rolls and a grunt. "He's your best friend, Ry, not mine. You're the one he has to hear all of this from."

Ryder opened his eyes halfway and peered vacantly down at his lap. It had only recently occurred to him that he was getting fat and, following closely on the heels of that thought, that it meant his twenties would be over in the not-too-distant future. Eventually he was going to have to quit the boozing and the smoking and the shirking of responsibilities if he didn't want to drop dead halfway through his thirties. Just like he was eventually going to have to tell his friend some uncomfortable truths. He reached down and tugged the bottom of his t-shirt over the slice of furry gut that was poking out.

Eventually. Right.

"Okay, Jules. Okay. I'll tell him. But not today."

"But soon?" she prodded, putting down the baking sheet a little harder than necessary.

"Yeah, yeah. Soon."

"Right." Julie popped open the rolls and peeled the cardboard back without taking her eyes off Ryder once. There was silence in the apartment for several minutes, broken only by the small metallic sounds of baking sheets and ovens. Ryder had almost drifted off to sleep when they heard the click of the bedroom door opening. He looked over the bar at Julie, and then she came skidding out into the living room to join him as he rolled himself off the couch toward the opening of the hallway.

Their patient was standing in the doorway of the guest room, looking at them both from half-lidded eyes like a semi-feral cat. Ryder approached him much in the same way he would have approached such an animal – softly, and with no sudden movements.

"Hey, man – you… you're out and about? That's awesome, man." No answer. Ryder looked at Julie, who managed to give him a two-handed push to the back just with her eyes. He took a deep preparatory breath. "Hey, listen, man – if you're feeling a little better, there's something I want to talk to you about lat—" He pulled up abruptly and flinched as his friend's hand came up toward his face. Then he realized what he was looking at.

Clutched in the fist in front of him was a piece of notebook paper with a ragged edge. Ryder looked up into the face that went with the fist and gulped. A cold wave ran down his throat and hit his stomach like bad heartburn. It was his friend's face, sure – and it wasn't like he hadn't been seeing it every day since they had sewn him up. But seeing it in the context of the spare bedroom – the sickroom – was one thing. Seeing it out here in the grey hallway daylight was another. The face he'd known since high school graduation was there, but it had been obscured by canyons of scar tissue that twisted up the cheeks in pink and lavender ropes. A few of the little tucks where the sutures had been were still warm, red, and angry. But it was all just there on top of the face he had laughed and partied with for years – like looking at something drawn on tracing paper laid over top of a familiar image. The sense of seeing two people at once was unsettling, and Ryder had the sudden realization that regardless of the face he could still see, he wasn't really looking at his friend at all. This was someone else. It was his friend's face, yeah – new landscaping included – but the eyes were something unfamiliar. Something was gone. They looked like the eyes he remembered seeing that morning that Eric and Vicky had gone screaming from the apartment, and he'd heard his friend mumble that they were all in hell. Ryder shuddered.

"Ry," Julie murmured, breaking the silence, and Ryder tore his gaze away from the eyes and back to the fist, which was now wiggling the piece of paper at him impatiently. He took it with some caution, and then stepped back as his patient came the rest of the way out of the bedroom. He said nothing to either of them as he shuffled down the hallway, slipped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then Julie let out the breath she'd been holding and came over to Ryder's side. "What is it?" she said, reaching for the paper. Ryder moved from the dim hallway to the lighter front room and smoothed out the note. He read:

kant

nietzsche

marx

freud

jung

erikson

"The hell?" he mumbled, passing the paper over to Julie. "What does this mean?" Julie glanced at the pencil scribbles, rolled her eyes, and handed it back to him.

"They're books, dumbass. Or authors, at least. Like, philosophers. Don't you read?"

Ryder snorted. "I was a theatre major, Jules, I barely even read my scripts."

"Well, my guess is, he's telling you he wants some books to read while he's cooped up in here," Julie pronounced as she wandered back into the kitchen to check on her rolls. "Honestly, we should have thought of that already. There's no TV in that bedroom, and he'll need something to do with himself."

"Okay, but where do I get books by people whose names I can't even pronounce?"

"Umm, maybe the library?" Julie offered. "Be honest with me, have you always been this dense, or is the cocaine finally getting to you?"

"I don't even have a library card," Ryder responded, ignoring the question.

"Fine," came the echoing reply from the open oven. "Give me the list. I'll go get them tomorrow."

Ryder slid the paper across the bar and then resettled himself on the couch. This was a good sign, he told himself. Sure. A good sign. He was asking for books, and you didn't ask for books if you planned to bump yourself off, right? Books meant he was getting better. Wanting to do something instead of just sit there on the edge of the bed like a vegetable. Maybe it meant he'd be okay enough in the near future to tell him about Jeannie's visit and the papers she wanted signed. Maybe. As the first wafts of scent from the crescent rolls started to float into the living room and hover around Ryder's nose, he heard the shower turn on down the hall behind him.

The first list of books were devoured at the rate of about one every two days, much to the bewilderment of Ryder, who had once taken five months to slog through The Great Gatsby (and didn't remember a word of it). The only other request they received during that time was for notebooks, which began to be filled with words written in close, sharp capitals almost as quickly as the books were being read. Communication happened solely by scribbled notes - nobody had heard him speak a word since the night they carried him in. Olly told Ryder that he ought to be able to talk now - the movement shouldn't be dangerous for his face or anything. They had told him that, too. But he still wasn't speaking. Olly reasoned that maybe he was being overly cautious about the wounds, and that he'd start talking when he was ready. Ryder personally thought maybe he was keeping silent because he was afraid of what he might say. Whichever reason, they supposed that any communication was a good sign, even if it was just lists of books.

When the butter-yellow cardstock bookmark they'd dug up for him – "LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE! Come To Red Hook Baptist Church!" – was about three-fourths of the way down the last book, another list was handed off at the bedroom door just like the first. This one read:

bible

quran

talmud

sutras

vedas

"Well, at least I've heard of one of those," Ryder said to Julie with a wry smile as he passed it on.

"You're an illiterate, uncultured swine, but I love you," Julie replied as she stuck the note in her pocket.

And so the weeks passed. Books went in and out of the spare bedroom at what was to Ryder an alarming rate. The third list consisted of mostly banned or formerly banned texts – the Marquis de Sade, Anarchist Cookbook, Catcher in the Rye, Mein Kampf, American Psycho - and while he was finishing those, Ryder had started to worry again. Maybe he wasn't getting better after all, reading things like that. Then he had asked for a complete works of Shakespeare, and Ryder let out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

By the end of February, he was plowing through major novels - Crime and Punishment, Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Wuthering Heights, all the ones that Ryder had worked hard to avoid in school. He read a bunch of Ayn Rand, a whole laundry list of Stephen King, and several Fitzgerald books that were not Gatsby (meaning Ryder had never heard of them). He read short stories by Faulkner, obscure Gothic novels, college literature anthologies. Then it was books of poetry - Keats, Byron, Blake, Elliot, Yeats, Ginsberg, Bukowski, most of whom Ryder wondered where he'd even heard of them. One day he would be reading Stephen Hawking, and the next there would be a request under the door for an anthology of Norse myths. He read history textbooks, self-help and motivational garbage, medical texts, old comic books - he spent three whole days reading nothing but formulaic paperback smut stories, the kind with Fabio-looking guys on the front and absolutely no literary merit. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what he requested. Some things he asked for a second time - Twenty-Thousand Leagues was one, Ayn Rand's Anthem was another. Other than that, it was a crazy grab-bag of titles that seemed to have no relation to each other.

Through it all, there was only one constant: he refused to let anyone into the bedroom. That had started a couple of days after the first delivery of books. Ryder had taken a tray of food, and instead of bringing it inside he had been met at the door, the tray taken from his grasp and empty dishes put in his hands. Ryder had seen it as a one-off occurrence until the next day, when Jules had tried to go in and change the sheets and had been locked out. The door would only ever be opened widely enough to admit food, giving just a sliver of a glimpse inside, and after a couple of weeks they realized that he was only coming out to shower or use the toilet when nobody was home.

"I don't like it, Jules," Ryder said as he switched the calendar page to March. Julie shrugged it off.

"Well, I can hand him clean sheets through the door just as easily as food," she reasoned. "If he doesn't want us in there, he can change them himself. Saves me the job." Ryder sighed.

"Yeah, but I don't like the implications of it. He won't talk, fine - his face is pretty screwed up. That's fair. But now he won't let anybody near him, won't see anybody all day? He's supposed to be getting better, not becoming a hermit."

"Relax," Julie soothed. "He's probably just trying to get it all out of his system. He almost died. People have done weirder things after near death experiences. Become priests, decided to train for the Olympics, joined tin-foil-hat alien cults…."

"Right," chuckled Ryder, "you're right. I guess wanting to be alone for months isn't the weirdest thing he could be doing. Let's just try to keep an eye on him." Julie nodded at that, and no more was said on the subject.

A week and a half into March, the paper that slid out under the bedroom door was an extra long list, a couple of items on it more like sentences than titles. Julie picked it up, and this time it was her turn to be confused.

"Okay, you got me. What are these?" She handed it to Ryder, who grinned as he read the first item: a boy named goo.

"My time has finally come," Ryder said snarkily. "You know your books, Miss Cultured, but I know music. It's a list of CDs."

The longer items on the paper turned out to be not album titles, but instructions. There was a request for a boom box that played radio, cassettes, and CDs, and for a record player, if they could find one. In addition to the listed albums, there was also a direction for one of them to go to the local thrift store and buy whatever terrible 50¢ tapes or records they had - no matter how ridiculous. Ryder saw this as another good sign - that his friend's sense of humor was coming back. It had been an old shenanigan in their college days to get the gang together, mildly buzzed but sober enough to pass inspection, and go to a Goodwill or a peddler's mall and spend hours just making fun of whatever bizarre cast-offs of American life they found there - and if they found any old tapes or records with weird titles or cover art, they'd spend the dollar or so and take them back to the dorms, get high, and see what said weird albums sounded like. It nearly always resulted in hours of laughter. Well, Ryder thought, if he wanted to laugh again, that was just about the best news they'd had in weeks.

The boom box they already had, along with a good chunk of the CDs he had requested, and these were passed through the door that same day. Within five minutes, the Goo Goo Dolls were blaring from behind the closed door. And from that moment on, the music continued unabated until the day the room became vacant again. He obliged them by turning it down to a dull hum at night, but during the day it stayed loud enough to muffle any sounds that attempted to pass between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment - or loud enough to muffle his own thoughts, Julie had suggested, and Ryder thought it was probably true. The only breaks in the sound were the few seconds it took him to switch out a tape or CD. What he listened to varied just as much as what he read. The Goo Goo Dolls album was played religiously every morning, but after that, there was no guessing whether it would be thrash metal, or Chopin, or Garth Brooks, or old Pat Boone gospel records. The weird things they brought in from thrift stores were duly interspersed between the ordinary albums - a tape of a local school's choir recital, some ludicrous new age meditation track that was just a guy saying affirming things over the strumming of a sitar, a record by a guy with a mullet titled "Cat Juggling," which as far as Ryder could tell had nothing to do with either cats or juggling. He listened to Nirvana and Celtic bagpipe bands and 50s sock-hop tunes and Mötley Crue in quick succession. The day after they brought in the record player, he treated them to a whole album that appeared to be a recording from some southern church tent revival - the kind with lots of tambourines and preachers who took big gasping breaths after each sentence. He played the Beatles' White Album once a week. On one occasion, he played a single song - some Irish thing about a stupid unicorn - for twenty-four hours straight. When it was still playing at nine the next morning, Ryder walked out of the apartment without even putting his shoes on; if he didn't get out of there, he might lose it. When he got home that evening and heard Pearl Jam instead, he nearly melted in relief.

And so it went.

March faded into April, and the steady flow of book requests and lists of CDs didn't stop or even slow. What did stop was any actual interaction across the bedroom threshold. All the notes were slipped under the door, and all the notebooks and music were slipped back under through the same route. Books required the door to actually open, but it was only ever opened wide enough to admit the girth of the book in question, and that was it. The recipient always kept himself safely behind the door where he couldn't be seen or spoken to. He began to request that his food be left on the hallway floor, and he would only slip out and pick it up when he was sure Ryder and Julie had vacated the area. A few days after Easter, they realized that he was only eating about half of what they gave him. Sandwiches came back chomped on but unfinished; mixed vegetables were scattered around but hardly touched; rice dishes had all the extras picked out of them. He drank nothing but water. And he stopped eating lunch all together.

Two weeks into April, Ryder caught sight of Jeannie's PT Cruiser pulling out of the lot, its blue carapace covered in a fine dusting of yellow pollen. He went out to see what she'd been up to and discovered that she had stuck a manila folder full of paperwork in his mailbox. Ryder dutifully slipped the folder under the door along with the latest CD - an Eagles' greatest hits mix - and waited in the hallway with trepidation. The folder came back out ten minutes later, every single page covered in crude cartoons and scribbles in red Sharpie. It was followed by a note requesting a pack of playing cards. Ryder showed the pages to Julie. Julie said nothing, but her eyes did enough talking for both of them.

In the third week of April, the book requests stopped. In fact, all the requests stopped except for one - more notebooks and pens. Ryder thought he must have filled up about fifteen notebooks already, but he couldn't remember how many he'd passed through under the door - and of course, nobody could get into the room to count them. Jeannie called wanting to know if her ex-husband had signed the papers yet, so they could get on with the formalities of him becoming her ex-husband; Ryder had to find a way to tell her that the papers she cared so much about had been graffitied like a high school bathroom stall. She said maybe she'd better wait a while before trying again. Ryder said yeah, that was probably best.

There were no more requests from the spare room that week at all.

Nor would there be again.

On Sunday April 22 at 10:37 AM, the music stopped.

Ryder was wresting himself into wakefulness under a tangle of sheets and pillows when he became aware of the silence. Julie had gone to New Carthage to her aunt's place that weekend, and he'd had the luxury of having the entire mattress to himself. As a consequence, he'd flopped from one odd, sprawling sleep position to another until the landscape of the bed was completely unrecognizable. At first he thought the quiet was the usual space between CDs - the Goo Goo Dolls album always finished up around this time of the morning, and then would come the surprise of what genre would be played next. He sat up blearily and rubbed his eyes. The opening bars of the next song didn't come right away, and that was odd. But whatever, he reasoned sleepily. Maybe today he was indecisive. Maybe he was standing there with two CDs in his hands trying to pick one. Maybe he wanted to play a record, but the needle was jacked up - maybe there'd be a request for a new needle lying in the hallway when he went out. Sure. Either way, he'd need to dish out breakfast. Ryder dragged his sweatpants over his legs and forced himself out of bed.

After opening the window and taking a cursory glance in the mirror - no joke, he was definitely getting fat, and he'd have to do something about it - Ryder shuffled out into the hallway. There was no note on the floor in front of the guest room. And the music still hadn't started back. No worries, Ryder told himself with a shrug. He wandered into the bathroom to pee. He can be indecisive if he wants. Or the needle really is broken, but he's trying to fix it himself. Sure. Sounds like something he would do.

At 10:46 by the microwave clock, Ryder stumbled into the living room and woke up the television. Good Day, Gotham! was on, and he grudgingly left it alone as he headed for the kitchen to make breakfast. He hated news, and he hated morning shows even more, but whatever. He was too sleepy to look for anything else, and hey - Jules was always saying he was a heathen with no awareness of the world around him. So he'd just show her. He'd leave it on and maybe he'd pick up some information and casually toss it into conversation when she got back.

"...has been confirmed for us by a source within Wayne Enterprises, although she has declined to give us her name," the anchor was in the middle of saying. His co-anchor nodded.

"That's right, David. Now, we attempted to obtain comment from Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, who has been employed by the Wayne family in the private sector for many years; however, he refused to give an in-depth statement, only telling our reporters that Mr. Wayne has, quote, 'been on a bloody long trip and would like to rest now, thank you.' Mr. Pennyworth also had no comment about the Wayne Enterprises board's recent decision to have Bruce Wayne declared legally dead."

"Bet they've got a lot of paperwork to do today, Vicki!"

"Oh, without a doubt. We'll be sure to keep you up to date as more information…."

Ryder slapped a frying pan on the stove and stopped listening without even realizing it. He was getting the eggs out of the fridge when it occurred to him that he would die screaming in agony (or at least end up with tiny burns all over his gut) if he didn't go put a shirt on before frying them.

He was three steps into the hallway when he realized that the music had now been stopped for more than ten minutes. "Shit," he breathed into the quiet hallway. The only sound in the apartment was the soft mumble of the news anchors on GCN. The only thing he could hear from the guest bedroom was silence. No - that wasn't entirely accurate. There was one tiny sound filtering its way out into the hall: a soft, unassuming swish. The kind of sound you got when you forgot to close a window and the breeze started fiddling with your stack of magazines. "Shit," Ryder said again, this time with more commitment. No way he'd go this long without switching CDs, Ryder knew. Even if he was trying to fix a jacked-up record player, he'd put something else on the CD player while he was messing with it. A month and a half, the guy had been playing music non-stop, the longest silence being the day the cassette player had eaten Boston (or so it had sounded like) and he'd spent maybe five minutes untangling ribbon before putting on a CD to work by. He'd never gone this long without music. And that swishing sound…. Ryder forgot about eggs and shirts and knocked on the door.

"Hey, man, you okay in there?" Naturally, there was nothing. Of course, he knew there wouldn't be. "Listen, dude, I know you're not gonna, like… verbally answer me, but shoot me a note under the door or something. It's awfully quiet in there. If something broke, gimme a list of what you need and I'll grab it right after breakfast." Still nothing. Ryder waited, but the only sound was that soft swishing - no noises of movement, no click of a pen, no footsteps or that scratchy noise the pencil always made when there was nothing between it and the dresser but a thin page. Just that swishing. Ryder swallowed hard. "Hey, come on," he prodded. "Listen, if you don't wiggle a pencil under the door or something, I'm coming in, okay?" He nodded to himself. That would get a reaction, if nothing else would. He might be incommunicado, but he wouldn't let Ryder barge in. He'd respond. Sure he would.

After a minute or so of dead quiet, Ryder wiggled the doorknob to make his point.

The knob turned easily in his hand, and the door swung open.

"Oh, come on…," Ryder breathed. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't what he got.

The guest room looked like one of those places they always broke into in the last ten minutes of Criminal Minds. The window was open, and the breeze puffing in and out like breath was fluttering the pages of the twenty or so notebooks that lay scattered around the room. They covered the floor, the bed, the dresser, and every one of them was open. Pages had been torn from some of them, and these adorned the walls and the chest of drawers. In the absence of tape or tacks, they had been tucked anywhere they would stick - under the edges of the wall trim, sticking up out of drawers - one had even been nailed to the wall with a pencil. Every page, those in the notebooks and the lone rangers, was covered with an untidy mixture of close, jagged, all-caps handwriting in pen and bigger, messier words and drawings in red Sharpie. Scattered all over the room among and on top of the notebooks were what looked like a whole pack of playing cards. Bible pages were among the single sheets stuck to the walls, with verses and passages circled and annotated with the same red marker. Only one place in the room looked tidy - the pillows at the head of the bed. Two books were stacked there neatly, the area around them the only part of the room free of scribbles and fluttering paper.

The room was unoccupied.

Ryder stood there in the doorway for a minute, staring stupidly around him. He was trying to wrap his brain around how his friend could be anywhere but in that room. He certainly wasn't anywhere else in the apartment; Ryder's room, the bathroom, the living room and kitchen - Ryder had been in all of those this morning and had been alone. He would have heard the front door open, because it always caught on a wavy spot in the floor and made a disgusting scraping sound, one that never failed to wake him up even out of a dead sleep. And the window…. No, he corrected, shaking the stupid look off his face. That window didn't open enough to let a six-foot guy out - maybe a kid, but not a grown man. Except….

He stared hard at the window then, watching the blue curtain puff in and out in a way that reminded him unsettlingly of the breathing machinery his gran had been hooked up to when she died. There was an awful lot of breeze for such a small opening. There—

"Dammit," Ryder spat suddenly. He hopped over the notebooks and cards to the window, his foot almost going out from under him as he slipped on a jack of spades. He jerked the curtain back and then let out a deep, quivering breath. "Fuck."

The window had been dismantled. He saw that now that he was on this side of the bed. He had completely taken the window frame apart somehow, without tools or anything - the section he'd removed Ryder now saw leaning against the bedside table surrounded by a litter of small hardware and broken pieces - and he'd gone out the window. Ryder leaned out and looked down at the rusty fire escape. A stray metal bit and some shards of painted wood lay just below the window like clues in a detective story. Guy went out this way, Chief. See the debris trail? Good find, rookie. Bag that up for evidence. Ryder slammed his hand down on the windowsill in irritation. Sure, it was great that his friend finally felt like going out somewhere - but leaving music on to muffle the noises, taking apart the window, and to leave in sweats and no shoes?

"Where the hell is he gonna go with no shoes?" Ryder mumbled. Not very far, he answered himself. Of course, he could only think of one place he'd want to go anyway. "He's going home," Ryder whispered. "Even if he goes somewhere else after, he's going there first. Has to, if he wants shoes and real clothes. Right? Right." Well, he'd just have to get dressed and go after him. See if he needed anything, see if he wanted to come back, whatever. Ryder's shoulders relaxed a little. Absently, he picked up one of the notebooks lying on the bed. It was full of close, sharp handwriting that looked like some kind of monologue. It seemed to be in reference to some deep-sounding book, and he didn't understand a word of it. He tossed it back down and looked at the two books stacked on the pillow. The thicker of the two was Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, the other a slimmer paperback with a lightbulb on the cover. On top of them was a small square of paper he hadn't noticed before. He reached over and picked it up.

It was a playing card, the only one from the pack Ryder had given him that was neatly placed and not strewn around the room. Ryder turned it over and saw that it was a joker. That made him chuckle. It was one of the old nicknames they'd given him in college. God, Ryder hadn't thought about that in a long time. He'd left it there for him like a calling card. Ryder smiled. Yeah, the kid was probably all right. Just needed to get out. He'd go put some clothes on and drive over to the brownstone, and he'd find him there getting his shoes and see if he was ready to come home. He put the joker card back where he'd found it and headed for the hallway. On the way, though, a new thought struck him.

Forget wanting to come back. What if he wasn't just going to go get shoes and some air?

What if he was going back to finish what he started?

"Shit," Ryder spat; then he bolted down the hall to get dressed. He'd have to hurry.

When Ryder pulled up outside the brownstone twenty minutes later, there was no sign of any trouble on the street. In fact, Ryder himself was the most chaotic thing in sight - he'd mismatched his socks and put on a ripped band shirt in his haste. The only person out and about was an elderly woman in bulky gardening gloves who appeared to be potting a plant on the stoop of the house next door, and she was eyeing him with not a little caution. He tried to smooth down his hair before walking toward her.

"Hey, uh… ma'am, can I ask you a question?"

"You may," she corrected as she picked up her trowel, holding it a little like a weapon. Ryder was too preoccupied to be insulted.

"Listen, have you seen anybody going in and out of that house this morning? My friend's been really sick, and he's been staying with me, but he left this morning and I can't find him, and I don't think it's safe for him to be out roaming—"

"Calm down, young man," the neighbor admonished. "You're forcing entirely too many words into one sentence." She put down her trowel then, apparently having decided that he was not dangerous, just hysterical, and sat down on her stoop. "As a matter of fact, I have not seen anyone going into that house. However, I have seen a young man coming out of it."

"Tall guy?" Ryder pressed, relieved at least to think he wasn't there to recover a body. "Blond, pretty recent scars on his face?" The neighbor removed one glove and brushed primly at some soil on her capris.

"I can't venture to guess at the second and third items, but yes, he was a rather tall young man."

"You can't venture to guess?" asked Ryder, exasperated. The woman blinked disapprovingly.

"No, I cannot. He was wearing one of those jackets with the large pockets and the hoods the young people are so fond of, and the hood was up."

"Was it a Red Sox hoodie?"

"Mmm," the neighbor considered. "It did have words on it, which I assumed were a sports team of some kind. And it was red. He was also carrying a large blue bag, which looked very much like the bowling bag my second husband carried in 1985. Just before he had a heart attack in that filthy bowling alley that I had warned him about."

"That's him, then," Ryder breathed. He remembered that bag from college. "When did you see him?"

"Oh… I'd say about fifteen minutes ago," the woman said after a moment's reflection. "I had just gone inside for my hat. He was coming down the steps when I came back out. Does this help, young man?"

"You bet," Ryder answered. "At least I know he's not passed out somewhere. Hey, did you happen to see which way he went when he left?"

The woman closed her eyes for a moment and tilted her head. Then she said, "Yes. I believe I saw him turn right. Doubtless he was heading for the bus stop at 16th and Montgomery." Having delivered this information, she picked up her tools again and resumed her task, clearly deciding that this was the end of the conversation. Ryder guessed it was, really, so he thanked her and got back in his car. Once he was behind the wheel, he just sat there for a minute or two. He figured that packing a bag wasn't something you did if you were going to go kill yourself, so that made him feel a little better - and he bet he knew where his friend was heading. Right meant north, and north was their old stomping ground. Mags still lived there in the same duplex on 127th, and the Montgomery bus line ran through Midtown, Uptown, and eventually to the Adams North Point Bridge.

He was going home.

"Well hell, let him go home," Ryder murmured, and he turned the car on. "His mom can probably do better than Jules and me anyway." He edged the car out into the street and drove away. He did not go north. He went home to make breakfast.

If Ryder had gone into the brownstone that day, he would have found the landscape largely unchanged from the one he had seen the night he'd carried his friend out of it, with only a few exceptions.

In the master bedroom, he would have found a scattering of men's clothing. It had been searched through carefully, a handful of very particular items packed into a bowling bag that had once belonged to a man named James, who had once had two legs and been able to bowl. The sweatpants and t-shirt that had been worn there from Ryder's apartment had been shed at the foot of the closet door.

The radio that always sat in the kitchen had been turned on - Jeannie had the power shut off some time before, but the radio ran on batteries. It had been spilling a hazy stream of news reports about Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham for the past half hour, and while Ryder spoke to the neighbor it had switched to even hazier streams of loud advertisements and age-distorted Gospel music. The batteries would die three hours later. Nobody would notice but the empty house.

And in the little room upstairs that had once been on its way to becoming a nursery, Ryder would have found a clean room, the only clean room in the house. And lying in the center of the rug he would have seen a wedding band, and beneath it, the other joker card from the pack he'd slipped under the door to his convalescing friend. Just like the one he'd found in his own spare room, he would have shrugged it off as a nostalgic gesture.

He would, of course, have been wrong both times.

That night, both Ryder and Jeannie (and Olly, and Mags, and pretty much everyone else in Gotham with a TV) watched clips of the paparazzi chasing a tired, bemused looking Bruce Wayne down his driveway. Wayne coming back from the dead was pretty much the only scoop anyone cared about. So in the flurry of news stories about Gotham's favorite son being restored to its bosom, a handful of minor reports went unnoticed, confined only to the ticker at the bottom of the screen and seen by pretty much no one.

A clinic that served the families of reservists at the Northside army base had burned to the ground that afternoon. No one was injured, and much of the medical equipment itself was undamaged, but all of the clinic's patient records were destroyed.

A dentist with a branch office near the North Point Bridge had come in for a rare Sunday of paperwork to find his basement file room flooded. Years' worth of documents and X-rays were ruined.

At Gotham State University, there had been a break-in at the Carter Building, which housed student records from the years before they had gone digital. Three file drawers were taken.

The Gotham DMV had lost access to its database of licensed drivers for about an hour that evening. The source of the disturbance was a hack that was traced to a public computer at the North Point branch of the library. No viruses were introduced, but the clerk was concerned that some drivers' information might have been stolen or deleted.

The former IT manager from Allied Chemical Enterprises got a request from Gotham PD that evening, asking for access to the bankrupt company's archive of employee fingerprint records for an investigation. She discovered that all the files in the archive had been deleted.

A sprinkler in the records room of Gotham General Hospital wiped out three books of birth records from the 1980s. A custodian eventually found what had set it off – a charred handful of surgical masks in a trash can on the other side of the row of shelves.

Nobody was hurt in any of these minor incidents. Aside from the arson at the clinic, they all pretty much counted as small-time vandalism. The dentist didn't even realize a crime had occurred at all. The best of cops and reporters probably wouldn't have made any connections between these events even on the most normal of days. And of course, this wasn't even close to a normal day. How often did billionaires go missing for seven years and then show up again like they were just coming back from a weekend on their yacht? The majority of Gothamites didn't even see the stories at all. Every eye was on Bruce Wayne. And that was exactly the way the perpetrator of the incidents had wanted it.

In the first week of May, around the same time a certain billionaire across town was illuminating the full extent of his basement, a skilled thief - known as Rat to his fellow hoods - brought a new guy into his boss's office in the back room of a dusty jewelry store in the Narrows. The store was a front. The boss, whose underlings knew him only as King, was the head of a growing theft ring that pulled only high-skill, high-dollar jobs. Before Gotham, he'd been a lockpick in an international team of diamond thieves in Europe. King didn't steal for peanuts. And since he considered himself the best, he only allowed the best into his circle. He was already evaluating before Rat and the stranger were fully in the office.

"Sez he wants on the team," Rat offered as introduction, and then folded himself small into a chair in the corner. "He ain' tell me his name."

King sized up the newcomer. A good prospect, yes. Rat rarely disappointed. The guy was thin, tall, good-looking. Lean muscle. Nice head of hair. The kind of guy you had to watch your girl around. Looked strong. More important, looked nimble. Like he could dance his way out of things. Kind of hollow under the eyes, though. A guy who'd just finished being sick and his skin hadn't gotten the memo, or who'd just kicked a drug habit and hadn't worked it out of his face yet. And there was something about his eyes... Oh, yes, King thought. Something unstable in the eyes. Something dangerous. King felt that this was a man who had no ground under his feet - who was standing on nothing but air and his own spun-glass ideology that might crack at any moment. Providing he didn't look directly at you, of course, he was unremarkable. He wore jeans, a Red Sox hoodie, and cheap Wal-Mart sneakers – the kind that looked like Chuck Taylors but didn't have the easily-identified tread marks. Smart. King liked that about him already. And this was a guy who could blend into a crowd and not look like a criminal, maybe not get noticed at all – as long as he kept his face down, that was. Besides the crazy eyes, the guy had a nasty Glasgow smile, and it looked fresh-cut, too. Spots of warm pink were still visible among the healing purple and white of the scars. That didn't bother King. He'd worked with guys back in Chelsea where they did that kind of thing for kicks on the weekend. But it did give him pause for thought.

"You didn't get that from Falcone's men, did you? Or the Russians?" He spoke with only the barest lilt of Europe in his voice, just enough to give him an air of the exotic, but not enough to pin him to a specific country. "Because I have to tell you that I don't truck with those fellows. Nobody with any Family connections comes onto our team. Family connections get messy."

"No," the man answered shortly. "The, ah… the guy who did it was…self-employed." King nodded. This man had a lilt of his own, an odd way of holding his mouth when he spoke. King could see he was still trying to get used to speaking around the scars in his mouth. But there was a hint of a giggle at the end of the sentence that set up an uncomfortable nervous flutter in King's stomach.

"Well, that's all right then. So tell me. What are your skills? I only take people I know I can use."

"Chemicals," the man answered promptly, his jaw working as though he wanted to chew on the scars but was still afraid to touch them. "The, ah…the kind that can eat through locks, or, that can tell you if your diamond is a fake."

"Mmm," King said sagely. That wasn't one you heard very often. It would be a card in his deck that not a lot of other crime rings had. Of course, it wouldn't be useful at all if the guy didn't have a basic set of burglary skills to go with it. (Or if he's also a raving lunatic) King's brain added, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. King walked over to a closet at the corner of the room and opened it. "A chemist would be a great addition to our skill set, to be sure," he said. "But of course, we have to be sure that you're more than just a chemist. Would you step over here, please?"

The man joined him in front of the closet, and Rat unfolded himself and sauntered over to watch. King indicated the closet with one hand. The inside of the door looked like an erector set had exploded and been embedded in it. "This is a little test I give to all prospective team members. I only work with the best. And while I have no doubt you may be an excellent chemist, that does not mean you automatically possess all the skills I require. I am going to lock you into this closet, my friend. The door is covered with a wide variety of lock types and mechanisms. Some of them will be engaged, some not. You will have half an hour to extricate yourself from this closet. Fail to do so, and you will not join my team. Do so, and I will take you under further consideration. Do you understand?"

In lieu of an answer, the man fixed King with a piercing stare. The lockpick shifted uncomfortably under his gaze - it was like looking into a double-barreled shotgun - before the man eventually stepped into the closet and waited for King to start locking the locks. King was unnerved, but he nodded at him for the second time that day. He did like a man who did things instead of saying them.

With Rat's help, King locked almost every lock on the door. Then they stood back and listened for the usual sounds of frantic jabbings and pokings. But there were none. King was pleasantly surprised. The man was not immediately hacking at the locks - he was studying them first. Another promising trait. They waited five minutes in the silent office before Rat suggested maybe lunch would be a better use of their time.

"You're right," King agreed. "We can go across the street to the bakery, and if he's any good, he'll be almost out by the time we get back."

"An' if he ain' good, he gone be screamin' to be let out by then," Rat added. King thought to himself Yes, and if he's as unstable as his eyes looked, he might have gone raving mad by then, too. Outwardly, though, he just chuckled and opened the office door.

The man was standing in the short hallway, staring that unnerving stare that was at the same time both flat and volatile. A ceiling panel lay just beyond the toes of his cheap Wal-Mart sneakers with their unrecognizable tread. He raised a mischievous eyebrow at their shocked faces.

"You, ah… you said I had half an hour to get out of the closet. You never said I had to pick the locks." The corner of his mouth twitched up into the bright pink scar tissue of his cheek, and for a moment, King found himself really, truly disturbed by the half smile. Then he collected himself.

"Ingenuity," he muttered. Aloud, he said, "What do we call you, friend?" And he held out his hand. The man took hold of it but didn't shake it, and King was taken aback by the amount of heat coming from the man's skin.

"J," the man replied, and this time, the smile was a full one. King shuddered.

As spring crept into summer, the new man became a well-used and surprisingly versatile member of King's gang. Only King and Rat knew him as J. To the lower orders of the gang he was at first a nameless enigma; and then some time around July someone started calling him Hood, after the hoodie he seemed never to take off, and it was this that stuck. But nickname or not, he was still a mystery to his fellow thieves. He never socialized with any of them, keeping mostly to the little room King had given him above the jewelry shop, and they knew next to nothing about him that didn't involve the tasks at hand. They knew he was a genius - he could take things apart and put them back together with startling ease; he could do math in his head like lightning, and he was an excellent judge of things like distance and angles at just a glance. He always seemed to be one step ahead of what everyone else was thinking. They knew he was a tee-totaller - drugs were passed around the gang occasionally when they weren't on a job, and alcohol almost every day, but the man they called Hood didn't touch any of it. In fact, sometimes he would even leave the room entirely if anyone offered him anything. Most of them assumed he was either a health freak or an addict trying to stay sober, and they left it at that. They knew he wasn't a career criminal - too many things he had to be taught how to do - but they also saw that he learned with alarming speed, and that as soon as someone taught him a skill, he'd be as good as them or better by the next day. Maus, the gang's weapons guru, taught him everything he knew about guns. He was reckless, Maus discovered - he handled the firearms like he had a death wish - but he was also an excellent shot when he wanted to be. Knight discovered much the same thing when he taught him how to rig explosives. I'm not sure if he's an artist, or a psychopath, Knight confided to the others that afternoon, and they all nodded agreement. He seemed to dance around that line in most aspects of his persona. Rat taught him the art of breaking and entering, and of getting where you were going without being noticed, and on more than one occasion he nearly gave other gang members heart attacks by appearing in places he shouldn't have been able to be. He learned how to slide through police interviews and beat polygraphs from a guy everyone called Clock, the gang's oldest member, and was given lessons in MMA fighting by Skate, who had been the new guy until he'd shown up. These lessons ended abruptly when he broke Skate's rib. You know how when you're pinned and you know you're about to lose, you drop all your technique and just fight like a maniac? Skate said to the others as he lay on the couch, wincing. Well, that's how he fights all the time. From the start. No strategy, no technique, just ...like the Tasmanian devil, man.

And that was the real issue, when they got right down to it. The guy was a genius, and a fast learner, and an excellent chemist - and he was also a lot like handling live explosives. Nobody knew what he did all day shut up in his room; and on the rare occasion anyone managed to catch him off guard, they would hear him muttering to himself in an eerie, cracked sing-song voice. He was the best strategic mind on the team, but he could swing from perfect calm to tornadic rage within seconds. And the slightest mention of his scars…. Well, after he impaled one of Falcone's message runners through the eye socket with an Xacto knife for commenting on them, they figured it was better to pretend the scars weren't there. He was an incredible asset to the team - and he was a ticking time bomb that none of the gang wanted to be standing next to when the timer ran out. King saw in him the makings of a future criminal kingpin, if he could keep a lid on that bomb for long enough. "That man could kill me tomorrow and run this whole team," he said privately one day to Rook, the team's gemstone expert. "Providing, of course, that he decided to run it and not burn it to the ground for entertainment." Rook just narrowed her eyes at him.

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"Immensely," King admitted. "But I have to retire someday, don't I?" He put on a strained smile that told Rook exactly how worried he was.

"Well, you'd better hope someday doesn't come before you're ready," she cautioned. King had the unsettling feeling that it might do just that.

The next few months, however, were uneventful - on that front at least. Their newest member proved quite literally worth his weight in diamonds after a series of exhibition robberies that they wouldn't have been able to pull off without the complex spiderwebs of his planning. And all the while, he kept learning. Boot taught him to hack computers with complex firewalls; Rook showed him how to tell real gems from fakes without using chemicals. Grid taught him to cover tattoos and scars with theatre makeup, and at this the whole gang crossed their fingers, hoping she could convince him to wear it on a full-time basis. His behavior was unsettling enough without having to look at the shredded edges of his grin. (In this, though, they were disappointed.) Even King himself began sharing some trade secrets - how Gotham's mob families were organized and interconnected, where they did their business and with whom, names of dirty cops (or cops who might be persuaded to be dirty cops), who was who in the criminal underbelly of Gotham and how to find them. He learned exactly where to shoot a man without killing him - or, conversely, how to make sure you killed him with one shot. They taught him how to get untraceable weapons or fake IDs or anything else he could possibly want from the black market, how to navigate the Narrows like a local, and where all the best hideouts were in each part of the city. He took in everything silently and with frightening alacrity. Only King seemed to realize the potential monster they were creating - an aggregate of all their collective criminal expertise contained in one extremely unstable brain. He kept his worries to himself, though. It didn't pay to let your subordinates see you sweat.

And so what happened in September came as a complete surprise to everyone except King. The gang were lying low after a major heist in Cobble Hill, and several of them had spent the day playing cards in a room above King's office. After lunch, Skate suggested that maybe they ought to go see if Hood wanted to join in - they all hated playing against him, because he could count cards without even exerting effort, but Skate thought maybe it might set him off if he wasn't at least invited. Maus grudgingly agreed and walked down the hall to knock on his door. He came scooting back in only a few seconds later.

"He's gone."

"What, like to get lunch?" said Rook, thumbing through her hand.

"No, fucking gone," Maus stressed. "Cleaned house. Room's empty."

"Clothes and all?" Grid asked, turning her cards down on the table and getting up. The rest followed suit and they all made their way down the hall after Maus, who reached the door and held out his arm like Vanna White promoting a cruise package.

"Everything and all," Maus said. "See for yourselves." And they could see that he was right. Everything - clothes, shoes, the couple of notebooks the guy was always scribbling in, his blue bowling bag, even the fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups that always littered his table - everything that had belonged to their mysterious teammate was gone. The room looked as though nobody had ever used it.

"How come we didn't see him leave?" Skate mumbled to himself as much as the others. "He'd have to walk right past us to get down the stairs."

"Window," Clock grunted, pointing, and they all followed his finger. "Son of a bitch went out the window." They all noticed now that the window was open. That in itself wasn't odd, of course, as it was warmer than usual for September - but a closer look showed them the scuff marks on the sill made by a pair of sneakers and a scrap of paper caught in the window frame.

"Damn it," Rook hissed. "King's not gonna be happy. We needed him to get into that vault over in New Carthage next month."

"You don't think he's coming back?" Skate asked, and Clock snorted at him.

"Don't look like it, does it, kid? Guy even took his garbage."

"And if he was coming back," Grid added, "he would have just gone down the stairs like a normal person, instead of bugging out through the window. He didn't want us to know he was leaving until he was far enough away that we wouldn't find him."

"Shit," Maus spat. "Well. Come on. One of us has to go tell King."

"Nose goes," Grid piped immediately, slapping her index finger against her nose tip. Skate did likewise, and Rook rolled her eyes at them.

"I'll do it, you little chickenshits. You guys just start coming up with a revised plan for the New Carthage job. Without Hood, we'll have to rethink the whole thing."

The little group began slowly filing out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs. Grid was the last to go. She started to reach over and hit the light switch when a thought struck her, and she turned instead and walked over to the open window. The scrap of paper stuck in the frame, she saw now, was not actually a scrap of paper. It was a playing card. She plucked it out and turned it over, recognizing it as a joker that had been nicked from the deck they had all just been playing with. It showed a jester in black and white checkered garb, sitting astride a pig with wings. But the picture had been altered with bright red Sharpie; the pig had been given a longer snout and tail, long whiskers, and sharp front teeth, turning it into a rat, and a crown had been drawn on the jester's head. Written below the picture in sharp, tiny capitals, were the words "LONG LIVE THE KING." For a second, Grid's eyes widened and she held her breath. Her brain started rapid cycling through interpretations. Surely he—

"Grid?! You still up there?"

"Yeah, coming!" Without letting herself think about it much more, Grid shoved the card into the breast pocket of her flannel shirt and buttoned the flap over it. Maybe it was a good thing the guy had bugged out, she thought as she hit the lights and started down the hall. He was unstable, after all. Dangerous. A little unhinged. The card was a good indicator of that. There was no need to bother the rest of the group about it, though. She figured King would be upset enough that Hood was gone, without having to see his taunting parting repartee. She forgot about the card almost as soon as Knight came in with an armload of McDonald's for everyone. It stayed in the pocket of her flannel for the next two weeks.

When she finally remembered it was there, of course, there was no longer anything she could do about it.

A week passed in relative calm – for Gotham, that is. Over the course of that week, while King's gang were rewriting plans and slowly forgetting their missing member, and while an exasperated valet on the other side of the city was receiving a second shipment of ten thousand graphite facemasks, a very exclusive men's clothing shop in Cobble Hill received a phone order for a custom wool overcoat. The man on the phone gave them exact measurements, instructed them not to attach any tags or shop markings, and said he would pay in cash upon completion. They weren't surprised. They took a lot of orders from mob bosses at this shop, and it was pretty standard procedure. Of course, most of the mob bosses didn't request purple coats with pumpkin-orange lining. But hey - if a boss who owned part of the city wanted to dress a little loudly, who were they to judge? It would take them a while to get the right color silk, of course, and they told the man on the phone as much. He told them to take their time. He could wait.

The next day, a haberdashery in Uptown received a large bolt of fabric in a blue geometric pattern, with a note attached requesting a dress shirt be made of the material to the measurements listed. No tags were to be used. The elderly clothier who ran the shop smiled knowingly and took the order himself. He had worked for the Family before.

A few hours later, a shop in Chinatown received an order for a grape pinstripe suit. Just like the others, they understood anonymous orders from experience.

King's knowledge of the Gotham mafia and their web of influence was being put to good use.

The Goodwill near Gotham's Little Italy neighborhood closed at 8:00 on Thursdays. At 7:45, there was only one customer left in the store, and Corinna surreptitiously locked the front doors to keep it that way. She hated the ones who came in with ten minutes left and wanted to look at every rack. Like, did they think she didn't have anywhere else to be except there with them? Having secured the entrance, she wandered back to the checkout desk, made the intercom announcement that they would be closing in fifteen minutes, and to please bring all purchases to the cashier for checkout, and then went back to what she had been doing before she went to the door – checking out the last customer's ass. She'd been watching him for a good fifteen minutes already, but she still wasn't tired of it. He was way old for her, of course – like, probably almost thirty – but damn. She popped her chewing gum and watched him rifling through the sock bin, willing him to bend over.

The phone rang unexpectedly and she almost swallowed her gum as she gasped. It was her brother telling her he'd be a few minutes late picking her up; she told him that if she was kidnapped and murdered during those few minutes, it'd be his fault and she'd haunt him forever. When she hung up and turned back around the customer was waiting at the register, and she almost swallowed her gum again. She hadn't heard him approach.

"Find everything you needed this evening, sir?" she said automatically as he put a pair of shoes and a pair of socks on the counter. He had very cute hands.

"Ah, does anybody ever find ex-ac-tly what they need in a Goodwill?" he answered, and Corinna looked up curiously; she hadn't expected that sort of voice to go with that highly watchable butt. What she mostly saw were a lot of dark blonde curls poking out from under a Red Sox hoodie. Mm. Nice hair. She grabbed the shoes then and started ringing them up – you couldn't stare too long, or people realized you were checking them out. The shoes were a dirty grey suede and looked like they had once been very expensive. Around that neighborhood, Corinna knew, they probably came from some dead mafia guy's closet. She put the shoes into a plastic bag and then rang up the socks – she picked them up by the plastic tag with two fingers and dropped them into the bag, unwilling to actually touch them. That was something she couldn't stomach purchasing at a Goodwill – socks or underwear. Gross. But before she dropped them in on top of the shoes, she noticed that they were a loud Halloween print, purple and green and orange and black, colorblocked and utterly hideous.

"Getting ready for next month early?" she quipped, ringing up the total.

"You might say that," he responded, and she looked up at him to finish ogling. This time she actually did swallow her gum – great hair, gorgeous eyes, but oh God, those scars – and thankfully, her coughing fit was enough to hide the shock on her face. She didn't want him to think she was rude.

"Sorry," she croaked. "Breathed wrong and swallowed my gum." Of course, she got the impression that he knew exactly why she had swallowed it, and she felt herself blush. "That'll be—"

The customer slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter, picked up his bag, and headed toward the door. Corinna stared at it blankly for a second, then remembered she'd locked up and jogged around the desk to let him out.

"Hey, whoa, mister," she started as she unlocked one of the doors, holding the bill out to him. "That's way too much, it was only—"

"Keep the extra," the customer rumbled as he pushed the door open. "Go buy yourself some more gum." He let the door bounce to a close behind him and then headed down the street toward the Narrows Bridge in the growing dusk.

Corinna watched him until he was too far into the dark to see anymore. Then she went back to the register to start shutting everything down and hoped her brother wouldn't be as late as he'd been worried about. She was lucky the guy with the scars had just been eccentric and generous with his money. There were some really scary crazies that came out at night in Gotham, and she didn't want to cross paths with any of them.

It wasn't until months later, after she'd transferred from GSU to UConn and saw a news report in her dorm lobby, that she realized how lucky she'd actually been.

On Friday night, the third shift manager at the North Gotham Wal-Mart stood in the puzzles and games aisle making a disgusted face at the stocker who was standing beside him.

"Jiminy Christmas," he spat. "Look at this. Freakin' kids. Can't keep anything nice anymore, no, the hoodlums won't let you." He was staring at the shelf of playing cards, where every single pack had been pulled out of its cellophane wrapper and opened. The empty plastic lay in shreds all over the aisle, clinging delicately to other merchandise and waving gently in the flow of the air conditioning. The manager picked up an open box and showed it to the stocker, who took it from him and shrugged.

"Doesn't look like they stole any," he said, tipping the pack and feeling what looked like a full deck hit his palm.

"No," the manager agreed, "but we can't sell 'em like this, now can we? Jiminy Christmas."

Together the stocker and the manager collected up all the open packs – which turned out to be every pack on the shelf – and they supposed that they were lucky the kids hadn't dumped all the cards all over the aisle for them to sweep up. The stocker took a couple of decks out and fanned through them, checking to see if any of them had been defaced. After a few minutes, he turned to his manager with a curious look on his face.

"Hey, you know what?" The manager clearly didn't know or care what, but the stocker went on. "I think all of these decks are missing their jokers. Look in some of those others and see if I'm right." The manager eyed him irritably, but he looked.

"Freakin' punks," the manager grumbled. "You're right. Opened every blessed pack in the whole aisle and took out every blessed joker card. Got 'em enough jokers to make a whole deck of just jokers. Tell me, why can't these punks go find something better to do than stealing joker cards out of every pack in the store, huh? Why can't they just go do something healthy like… I dunno, baseball?"

"Wrong time of year for baseball," the stocker shrugged. "Come on. I'll get a broom for the wrappers." They walked out of the aisle together and headed toward the back to tell the rest of third shift what kind of day it was starting out as.

They didn't know it, of course, but across town at the Sheal Wal-Mart another third shift manager was stumbling over the exact same bizarre theft in his own puzzle aisle. And when the West Gotham Mall opened the next morning, the proprietor of Gam3s – a specialty shop that sold board and card games geared toward the serious player –would find his playing card section just as cleanly picked through as the others.

The cashier at the Volk Street Peddler's Mall turned off the overhead fluorescent lights one section at a time, starting with the one in the furniture section that had been flickering all day. She had locked all the doors except the front left one that she planned to leave through, and all of the numbers from the registers had added up correctly. She had swept all of the aisles, cleaned up an overturned rack of DVDs in booth 219, and had even managed to figure out what had been causing the weird smell in aisle three (a half-eaten slice of pizza some kid had shoved into a motorcycle helmet probably days earlier). She turned out the last of the lights, locked up, and went home confident that she had taken care of everything.

The only thing she had missed was the slightly open door of the glass case in booth 106, the case that held all of the switchblades and other specialty knives. There was no damage; the lock had been expertly picked. Moonlight glinted sharply off the corner of the glass door and reflected back a dozen times off a dozen other glass cases in the deserted peddler's mall, illuminating the one empty slot in the velvet of the display case. A chorus of antique clocks ticked out of sync with each other from the surrounding booths in a staccato that echoed through the silent aisles of cast-off merchandise. Somewhere in the back near the restrooms, an alarm clock radio came weakly to life, playing a distorted, quivering rendition of the Platters' "Only You." The door to the glass case swung a centimeter or two on its hinges. Then a cloud came over the moon, and the peddler's mall slipped into the dreamless darkness of empty places.

On a chilly evening near the end of September, while Falcone's drug runners were experiencing their collective worst nightmare at the Sheal docks, King was unlocking his office door a few miles away in the Narrows after a very, very long day of rebuilding dikes. He had almost decided to scrap the New Carthage job entirely - especially since Rat was having no luck tracking down their wayward chemist. The expert burglar had spent the past week digging around in the Narrows and in the other dark, shadowy places of Gotham, trying to find out where Hood had gone and if he could be persuaded to come back. King didn't have much confidence that he would, but you never knew. Maybe they would get lucky. He'd kept in constant phone contact with Rat all week, getting (lack of) progress updates at least a couple of times a day. But today, Rat's cell had gone unanswered every time, and King was starting to be suspicious. At first he'd thought maybe Rat had found Hood after all and wasn't answering because he was deep in negotiation. But it was getting late, and he should have turned up or answered by now. King pushed open his office door and tucked his key back in his pocket. He'd give it until midnight, and if he'd heard nothing by then, he'd have to send out a search party to find the search party.

He was aware that something was wrong as soon as he closed the door behind him, although he couldn't have pointed out exactly what it was. It felt as though something in the room was moved slightly out of place, or perhaps something had been added that had not been there that morning. And floating over the top of that sensation was the feeling that he was not alone in the office. His eyes still scanning the dark room, he reached out and swiped at the light switch beside the door. He flicked it. Flicked it again. Nothing happened but the dry, flat snap of plastic on plastic. Lights were out. That set up a little flurry of panic at the base of King's stomach. The hallway lights had been on, so the juice was still flowing. Which meant either the lightbulb was blown, or….

...or the lightbulb had been taken out.

King had been in the business too long to be optimistic about which one had happened here.

Trying to look nonchalant - like a man who simply had a bulb blown in his office and would turn on the desk lamp so he could replace it, and not like a man on edge about intruders - King put down the satchel he'd been carrying and scanned the room. He took slow steps toward his desk, evaluating as he moved. Coat on the hook by the side window. Tall cabinet doors closed. No signs of debris or dumped out drawers. His toe suddenly thwacked mercilessly against a chair that was not in its usual place, and he barely stifled the curse that almost thundered out of his mouth. Well, there was the first thing not right. As his eyes adjusted to the faint, muddy light that managed to leak in through the window blinds, he realized that the chair was directly under the ceiling light fixture. The answer to his first question. King suppressed the panic that was flaring under his diaphragm and tried to think. If they'd taken the light bulb, then they wanted him in the office in the dark - which meant they were probably still there. And he could think of only one place they could hide. King turned from the lamp on the desk and took slow, careful steps toward the closet.

All of the locks were unlocked except the main one, which wasn't unusual. Unless he was testing someone, that was usually how he kept it. But the key to that main lock, which usually hung on a hook just beside the closet door, had gone. Naturally, he thought. He didn't suppose an intruder would have broken into his office and removed a light bulb just to lock themselves inside his closet, but he did need to cover all his bases. He picked the lock with the deft skill of years and swung open the closet door. Something fell out of the closet onto his feet with a wet thopp and then rolled over into a puddle of moonlight as King jumped backward to avoid it. For just a moment, his jaw only waggled up and down noiselessly, his throat unable to produce an adequate sound of reaction. When he finally managed it, it was a strangled and animalistic wail.

The wet something that had fallen from the closet was Rat. King knew it was him by the leather vest he never went without, with its little rat-shaped pendant hanging from the pocket flap. The vest, the pendant, and the whole rest of the body were slick with blood, still warm and fresh enough that the smell hit King like a wave before he'd had time to do more than let out that first cry. The smell stopped his wail as abruptly as a hand over his mouth, and he was almost sick. The blood had all come from Rat's throat. His head was completely enclosed in a massive, glimmering, unholy monster version of a rat trap, the teeth of which were sunk deep into his neck.

"Fok!" King whined, dropping back into his native language in his panic. "Gadverdamme… Rat… Rat!" He shouted the man's name even though he was quite aware he was shouting at a corpse. Rat's neck was almost completely obliterated by the trap. King heard himself whine like a frightened dog. Someone had taken his light bulb, and had left his most valuable associate slaughtered for him to find, and that person was almost certainly still on the premises, if not still in the room. King whirled around, nearly slipped in Rat's blood, and caught himself against the desk, hands patting around frantically for the small lamp. If he could get the lamp on, he might stand a chance. It had been a long time since he'd needed to do any hand-to-hand fighting himself, but he thought that in a pinch, he might just make it. His hands closed around the base of the lamp, and he felt desperately to find the knob to turn it on. His eyes darted back and forth around the room, white and bulging, trying to see through the muddy darkness. If someone was in the room with him, he couldn't see them. Were they under the desk? Or they could be in the tall cabinet, he supposed, if they were slender—

(coat the coat on the hook wrong it's wrong look at the coat)

King had just enough time to realize that there shouldn't be any overcoat hanging on that hook by the window, because he was wearing his overcoat. As his fingers found the knob of the lamp and snapped it on, the coat stood up away from the wall and came toward him. In the pool of yellow light cast by the desk lamp, he saw the man's jeans, the Chuck Taylor knock-off shoes, and the arm and torso in the red hoodie. The damned Red Sox hoodie.

"Gooood evening… your MAjesty…."

The voice was followed by the shink of a knife blade shooting out of its handle. King had time enough for one more scream before the arm sheathed in the red hooded sweatshirt came up to meet him. Then the office fell silent except for two sounds - the soft raindrop pattering of King's blood, and the man in the red hoodie, quietly singing as he arranged his victims into a tableau of death.

"YA - ta - ta - taaaaa, ta-ta… ya - ta - ta - taaaaa, ta-ta…. Hmmm HM-hm-hm-hm hmmmmm - hmm - HMM…. God save… the… KIIINNNG."

When Maus and Clock entered the office the next morning, they found Rat's stiffened body posed as if offering fealty, his head in the glistening rat trap balanced against the desk. King was seated in his desk chair, a hand on each chair arm, blanketed from neck to lap in a velvety cloak of congealed blood. Diamonds and gemstones from his personal safe had been sprinkled all over him and were glued to his skin and clothing by the stickiness. On his head sat a crown made from newspapers. If the two men had gotten close enough, they would have seen that the papers in the crown were all reports of the gang's robberies, neatly folded so that the relevant stories were facing outward. But they didn't get that close.

"Mother of God," Clock rasped, his face stony.

In the doorway behind him, Maus vomited up his breakfast.

In the days that followed the deaths of King and Rat, the gang that had been on a fast track to becoming Gotham's most successful theft ring scattered as if they had never been connected at all. Under ordinary circumstances, posed bodies like those found in the jewelry store office would have ended up on the front page of the papers, or at least the second. But of course, all the papers wanted to print that week was the image of Carmine Falcone strapped to a floodlight. With that sort of distraction, the demise of a couple of thieves in the Narrows went unnoticed. And while GCPD worked to clean up the mess that the Batman had dumped on their doorstep, someone else was doing a cleanup operation of his own.

The day after the murders of King and Rat, the hacker the gang had called Boot was found dead in his apartment by his roommate. He had been trussed up like a boar at a medieval feast, naked, with his wireless mouse shoved into his mouth. The medical examiner would later find a flash drive in the dead man's anus - a flash drive that contained enough evidence to bring down the largest child pornography ring on the east coast.

Later that same day, an explosion was reported by a concerned passerby near a condemned block of apartments just south of the Narrows. The responding officers found the residue of a homemade bomb and the pieces of the man who had been holding it - a man who had, until the previous day, been known as Knight. It appeared that he had tripped his own bomb, and the death was ruled accidental.

With the gang broken up, Skate had decided to return to his former cash cow: illegal prize fights. When he didn't come out of his dressing room (actually a glorified broom closet) for his second fight in as many days, someone went to check on him and found him hanging from the coat hook on the back of the door. He had been stabbed to death.

Grid had stashed away a considerable amount of money from the gang's recent hauls. The card she'd found on the windowsill the day Hood had left had pretty well convinced her that Gotham's criminal underbelly wasn't a healthy place to use her talents, and she'd been preparing to abscond even before what happened to King. She'd remembered the card after the fact, running to her dirty clothes pile and pulling it out of the pocket when Maus told her how they'd found the bodies. But she hadn't shown anyone else. Oh, no. Better to leave well enough alone and then get out of Dodge before anything else went down. So she'd taken what she could from King's hidden safe and gone to the furthest place she could get from the Narrows without leaving familiar territory - Midtown Community Theatre. She took a job as their lead makeup artist and hoped fervently that she'd shaken the dust of King's gang off her feet. She'd held the position for all of two days and was in the backstage closet going through their inventory when she heard someone come in behind her. Before she had the chance to ask if Kevin had gotten her the Ben Nye catalog like she'd requested, a strip of duct tape was slapped over her mouth, followed quickly by another over her nose. Kevin came in with the catalog fifteen minutes later and found her lying on the floor of the men's dressing room with a cheap plastic drama mask taped to her chin and hair. When he peeled it off, he found her sightless eyes staring up at him over the entire roll of duct tape that had been wrapped around the lower half of her face.

In mid-October, as a grimy, wet chill began to settle over the city and plastic jack-o-lanterns started popping up on porches, both Rook and Maus received unexpected phone calls. They had both melted into other criminal networks - Rook into a white collar diamond smuggling ring, Maus now a bodyguard for a nightclub owner in Cobble Hill who dabbled in trafficking girls from eastern Europe - and both were thoroughly surprised to hear from Hood, who they had thought long gone the day he'd slipped out the window of King's headquarters. Terrible, what had happened to King, he said. He'd heard about it through the grapevine of his new criminal associates, and he had been shocked. He'd gotten kind of fond of the guy, he said. A real shame. When they asked how he'd managed to find them now that the gang was broken up, he evaded the question so skillfully that they almost didn't notice his evasion. Then he got down to business. There was a job, he said. He'd heard about it through one of his new associates. A mob bank close to Maus in Cobble Hill. Word on the street was that there was a safe in there packed with uncut diamonds and other goodies. He could get in, but he'd need a gem expert to tell him what to take and what not to waste his time with, and a sharpshooter to cover them in case the bank had live security in the vault. And he wanted people he knew from experience. People he could trust. First week of November, if they were game. Would they be interested? You know - for old times' sake?

They were, of course. How could they resist?

Grid had never told them about the card she'd found in Hood's window frame. If she had, it might have saved them from signing up for their own deaths.

A couple of evenings before Halloween, while Bruce Wayne was stepping into a hotel fountain and slipping on a mask of disarming and amicable hedonism, an alarm was tripped at a Halloween City store in the North Point Shopping Center. When the manager got there half an hour later, he expected to find the store ransacked and possibly covered in toilet paper. But the only things he could see that had been taken were an unpacked box of makeup kits - the kinds with tubes of red, white, and black greasepaint - and about ten assorted clown masks. The manager had shrugged - "Some robbery," he muttered to himself - and simply brought some more masks out front to refill the rack. He was out, what - a hundred bucks, max? The thief hadn't even broken anything to get in, just picked the lock and taken a piddling handful of merchandise that he was barely going to miss. Heck, it was two days before Halloween, the store was slim pickings right now anyway, and would close up for the season next week. The manager just locked back up and went home. He didn't report the theft to the police. They had bigger problems to worry about.

In the early morning hours as Halloween gave way to November, the homeless man who slept in the gazebo behind Northside Community Church woke up with a jerk, certain that there had been someone else in the gazebo with him just moments before. He looked around and saw no one, although there was a rustling in the hedge that separated the church grounds from the street which his brain told him was the sound of someone sneaking out of sight. He was about to dismiss the feeling and go back to sleep when he turned over and saw the plastic shopping bag beside him that hadn't been there when he'd gone to sleep. Cautiously, he opened it.

Inside he found a pair of blue jeans, a long-sleeved waffle knit shirt, a pair of socks, a pair of black-and-white high-top sneakers, and a Boston Red Sox hoodie. The sweatshirt and jeans looked like they had some paint splatter on them, but they were soft, smelled clean, and had no holes he could see. He grinned. Talk about your good luck. He needed a new pair of jeans, and extra layers were always a plus with winter approaching.

Besides, he thought, his grin widening. He had always been a Red Sox fan.

"Thank you…," he whispered in the direction of the bushes that had moved. Then he pulled on the hoodie and went back to sleep.

The first time anyone saw the face that would haunt Gotham for the next year was the morning of Monday, November 5th, 2007. The face appeared on the security camera footage of Fidelity Bank Gotham, although the footage wouldn't be reviewed until much later that day. The first person to see the face died before he could tell anyone what he saw - or warn them about what was coming.

Rook and Maus showed up for the bank job Hood had recruited them for around 7:30 that morning. They weren't comfortable doing this in daylight, they'd told him, but he assured them that people were more on their guard at night, because they expected crime to happen then. Nobody anticipated robberies an hour before employees arrived. They were all out getting frappes. Besides, he'd said. They'd be in and out in half an hour, tops. They'd even lock the vault back up when they left, buy some extra time.

The two of them sat in their van until they saw Hood beckoning from the flowerbed behind the bank. They left the keys in the ignition so they could amscray as soon as they were done. Hood was waiting for them in the shadows of a giant waxy-leaved bush beside the AC unit, and they both wrinkled their eyebrows at his appearance. He was dressed in a purple-grey suit that was poorly fitted and still had creases in it from being folded for what looked to be a very long time. He had coated his dark blonde hair with cheap green spray-on color, the kind you got from the Halloween aisle at Wal-Mart for a buck that rubbed off on anything you touched and stained your hands. His face, they couldn't see - he was wearing an oversized rubber clown mask. Here, he grunted from behind the grumpy clown face, and they looked down to see him holding out two more masks for them. For the cameras, he told them. It paid to be cautious. They both eyed each other in mutual distaste, but they put them on. I am not spraying my hair, though, Rook hissed through the pink grimace of her mask, and Hood had laid a delicate hand over the blue stripes of his shirt like a Victorian lady. Perish the thought, he said disdainfully. And then they picked the lock and went inside.

The theft went off like a well-rehearsed play, and everything happened exactly the way Hood had told them he'd planned it - right up until they came up from the vault and saw little red lasers dancing on each other's chests and masks. There had been a silent alarm. And one of them had triggered it.

Maus made the quick calculation that they were closer to the unobstructed back door than they were to the cops lining up in the front. He tossed his haul to the floor behind him for Hood to grab, lifted a MAC-10 in each hand, and screamed for the other two to make a break for it. They might get out the door before anybody had to do any shooting. And even if somebody took a shot, he could probably take them down and make it to the door before he spent all his ammo. This wasn't how they'd planned it, but they could still make it work.

Beside him, Rook screamed as her left bicep exploded.

He had miscalculated, Maus realized. Somebody was shooting from behind them, too.

The next two minutes were a complete maelstrom of screams, gunshots, and breaking glass. Both Maus and the cops opened fire when they heard the first shot, and even Rook had instinctively lifted her own weapon in the hand she could still use. By the time the last panels of tinkling glass fell to the tile and the sirens of the approaching backup could be heard one street over, both Rook and Maus were on the floor, along with all five cops who'd been the first on scene. Rook was dead, shot straight through the throat. The cops had all been wearing vests and had survived, although they were all stunned from impacts and bleeding from non-lethal parts of their anatomy like legs and arms. Maus could hear them groaning as he swam in and out of consciousness, could hear one of them trying to radio for help, could hear sirens getting closer outside. He was hit, and he was going to die, and he knew it. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, and he couldn't feel his legs. He rolled his head to the side, saw Rook with half her throat gone, and groaned as he tasted more blood. He couldn't see Hood. That bastard, he thought foggily. His stupid plan, and now they were all just so much ground beef. He could only hope Hood was lying dead somewhere he couldn't see.

"Hickory dickory… DOCK." The voice came from somewhere behind him, and Maus almost tried to crane his neck to look before he remembered his insides were falling out and he couldn't move. It was a chanting, sing-songy voice, and it gave him the creeps. "The, ah… the Maus… ran up the clock." Footsteps near his head. A pair of grey sneakers held together by twine appeared in the corner of his vision. As Maus watched, the shoes walked around beside him, and the person wearing them bent down. Purple-grey-slacked knees came into view, followed by the grumpy clown mask and green-sprayed hair. Hood, Maus tried to say, but all he got out was a wet, bloody cough. The man he called Hood didn't respond, didn't move to help. Instead he cocked his head to one side like a wild animal hearing an inaudible frequency. Blood ran into one of Maus's eyes, and he tried to lift a hand to wipe it away but managed only a twitch of his fingers. The image of the masked man in front of him began to blur and redden. Then the voice came again, from behind the mask. "The clock struck one… the Maus… went… down…."

Slowly, the man's hand came up and hooked under the corner of the mask, and he peeled it gently upward. Maus saw the greasepaint streaked smile with his last moments of consciousness, watched it slither upward across the death-white face and form the last words Maus would ever hear.

"Hickory… dickory… DOCK."

The additional GCPD cruisers swung into the bank parking lot only minutes later, narrowly avoiding a collision with a white panel van that was trundling down the street in the opposite direction. They found all of the contents of the vault missing, five cops injured but expected to live, and two suspects who had inexplicably both been killed by each other - the medical examiner would later confirm that the fatal shot in each case had been fired by one of the thieves' own weapons, not police issue. It wasn't until much later that evening that one of the cops in bed at Gotham General Hospital told detectives there had been three suspects, not two. When they finally checked the bank's security cameras hours later, what they saw was unlike anything they were accustomed to, even the veteran cops. The third suspect had gone out the way they'd come in, through the back door of the bank, and he'd taken the entire haul with him. "Son of a bitch got his buddies shot on purpose so he didn't have to split the loot," one of the cops watching the video muttered. This wasn't out of the ordinary, though; it was what they saw next that got them. At the last moment, just before he exited the bank, the third suspect - who, up until now had been masked or had been skillfully avoiding all the security cameras - turned his unmasked face upward and looked directly into the camera that covered the back entrance.

"Freeze it," snapped the sergeant, and the IT guy manning the computer obliged. Everyone in the tiny room was silent for a few seconds. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," the sergeant said finally. Behind him, a veteran detective leaned in for a better view.

"What in the happy-crappy-Stephen-King-looking-shit is this?"

Nobody answered him. They all just kept staring at the face on the screen, the clown face out of all of their childhood nightmares, a wet smeared mask of white paint with well-deep black eyes and a jagged, knowing grin, all rendered in the dead, moldy tones of security footage grey.

"God," somebody whispered from the back. "Look at his face…."

"Glasgow smile, kid," the old detective smirked. "Never seen one before? Well, get used to it. There's some wannabe Whitey Bulgers over in Columbia Point who like to do that to somebody once every few months."

"But the paint…," the IT guy began, and then fell silent. The sergeant crossed his arms.

"He dressed up for us. Punk wants us to look at him, and look at him good. Wants us to remember his face when we close our eyes at night."

"Why would he do that?" one of the rookies asked. "Why would he want to be seen?"

"Because," the veteran detective grimaced, knowing what they were in for from experience. "He knows it don't matter. He knows there ain't nobody in the city who can ID him, and he's teasing us with it. Catch me if you can, pigs. That's what he's saying. Catch me if you think you can. Son of a bitch." He sighed and turned to leave the room. "Get some sleep tonight, boys, 'cause ain't none of us gonna sleep for the next month if that fucker has anything to say about it, you mark my words." The detective opened the door and was nearly bowled over by another cop who was practically running into the room, waving something in his hand.

"Sarge?!" the cop barked, not even noticing the near collision. "You'd better look at this." He passed the object to the sergeant, who took it, looked it over, and grunted.

"What's this?"

"Evidence from the bank, sir. Or at least, that's the box we found it in." Everyone leaned in to look at what the sergeant was holding. It was a small evidence bag, marked with all the tape and seals and warning labels that evidence bags should have. Inside the clear plastic was a playing card with an intricate woven diamond patterned back in burgundy wine and forest green. The sergeant turned it over. The face side showed a jester in pointed hat and shoes, the word Joker printed small in all four corners. The sergeant wrinkled his forehead.

"What do you mean, that's the box we found it in?"

"We don't think it actually came from the bank, sir. We were going over the evidence with the CSIs, and they laid everything out on the table to log it, and nobody could remember entering this into evidence. Nobody. Not a single person on scene remembered finding this."

"So somebody forgot," the sergeant said irritably. But the other cop shook his head.

"That's what I thought too, sir. But then I looked at the label to see who signed off on it. And… well, look." He pointed at the evidence label on the bag, and the sergeant grudgingly looked, obviously feeling that his time was being wasted. There was a quiet moment as he read what was written there. Case ID. Location. Time and date. The usual information. When he arrived at the last line, they all heard him breathe in sharply.

"Who the hell is that?" Everyone strained to read over his shoulder. On the bottom of the label, under Recovered By, was the signature J. Kerr. The sergeant snapped his face up to look at the cop who'd brought the card, and the cop nodded.

"Exactly, sir. We checked, and there's nobody on the force with the name J. Kerr. Never has been. There was an Andrew Kerr back in the 70s, but that's it."

"Joker," came a quiet voice, and they all turned to look at the IT guy who they'd forgotten was there. He nodded toward the card. "It's a joker card. J Kerr… jo-ker… you get it?" The room was silent. They got it, alright.

"You mean to tell me," the sergeant growled, "that this punk… waltzed right into our crime lab and entered his own evidence, and not a single person noticed him?" Nobody wanted to be the one to answer that. "Shit. Some cops we are." He massaged his temples and handed the card back to the cop who'd brought it. "Okay. Okay. Take that back to the crime lab. Tell them to check it for DNA or whatever it is they do. Maybe he touched it barehanded. And if none of the other labels have his name on them and nothing is unsealed, maybe we can still say the chain of custody isn't broken. Go."

The cop took the card and ran back out of the room. Behind the door, the veteran detective sneered.

"Won't be no DNA on that, Sarge. No fingerprints either." The sergeant fixed him with a withering look, but he went on, his sneer unaffected. "Bastard's too smart for that. If he's smart enough to pass as a CSI long enough to get the damn thing in the evidence box, he's too smart to leave anything on it. He dropped that here for one reason."

"And what's that?" the sergeant snapped, though he already knew.

"Calling card," the detective answered, opening the door to leave. "He's telling us his name. Saying the same thing he was saying when he looked into that camera on purpose. Catch me if you can, piggies. Catch me if you can."

The image of the man in the clown makeup that sent Gotham's detectives into overdrive that evening made it to all of the major news channels by the next day. The report on the bank job ran Tuesday evening on the six o'clock news, while the majority of Gothamites were having dinner, and while James Gordon was taking out his trash and talking to unexpected visitors in the shadows of his stoop. The sergeant who had first seen the footage had a pretty good idea that it was the IT guy who had leaked the still frame to the media, but he couldn't prove it. He gave him a good old tongue-lashing for it just the same. Of course, the news networks weren't sensationalizing it (yet), and that was something. To them, it was just a short blurb about a bank robber in face paint, and then right back to talking about the Batman. The detectives all privately hoped the thief had been wrong to show his face, and that someone would recognize him, paint or not. But no one ever came forward.

They weren't, however, entirely wrong. A handful of people watching the news that night saw the face and had a momentary flash of recognition that they either dismissed, forgot about, or explained away.

A retired circus clown who was in town visiting family saw the bank robber's picture and chuckled, finding himself vaguely reminded of the purple suit and painted smile he had worn more than a decade before.

In north Gotham, Nash Carter looked up from a card game with his brother Kevin just in time to see the picture and think it looked a little like his old friend from high school. They hadn't spoken in almost a year, he realized. He made a note to himself to give the guy a call and catch up, and then promptly forgot about it when his mother shouted that the pot roast was done.

In a VA hospital just outside Gotham, James Napier saw the news from his bed and had an eerie feeling that he knew who he was looking at - but then he chalked it up to his medication and went to sleep.

These and maybe as many as a dozen or so others had such small moments of recognition that passed almost as quickly as they had arrived. None of them made the solid connection, and none of them would think about it again. But five people in Gotham that night saw the security camera image and knew exactly who they were looking at.

In the doctors' lounge at Gotham General Hospital, Oliver Jackson Rockbridge III was kicking the vending machine defeatedly, trying to get either his candy bar or his money back and getting neither. It was the second day of his pediatrics rotation, and he already had the urge to chop off his own balls just to be sure he never produced one of those little nightmares. "Hey, OJ, check it out," somebody said from behind him, turning up the television. Olly gritted his teeth at the nickname he'd tried to keep from sticking and gave up on the candy bar. He turned and went to sit at the table full of used coffee cups and file folders and glanced absently at whatever they were trying to show him on the TV. For a second his breath stuck in his throat, and he coughed hard enough that one of the doctors in the room slapped him on the back and asked if he was okay. He waved them away, staring at the screen. His own handiwork stared back at him from under a layer of dark greasepaint, the crude stitches he had thrown in so frantically having turned into jagged ridges of scar tissue. Of course, he'd known that much would happen - he was no surgeon, and it had been a desperate and quick thing. And he'd known Ryder's friend was… well, maybe the best word was unstable. Obviously he'd taken the divorce pretty hard. Olly hadn't been to Ryder's in a few months, sure, but last he'd heard the guy was still holed up in Ryder's guest room shutting out the world, so what the hell had happened between then and now? Olly felt the blood drain out of his face. He should call the cops. He knew he should. Guy was robbing banks and shooting police officers. As an upstanding citizen, he should do the right thing and turn the guy in. But of course, he wasn't an upstanding citizen, was he? The stolen drugs currently sitting in his locker said no. And if he told the cops what he knew, he'd have to tell them how he knew. What was he supposed to say - Gee, officer, I know the name of that bank robber there because I'm the one who sewed up his face! Why didn't we go to a hospital, you ask? Well gosh, officer, I guess because we were all coked out of our minds and didn't want to get arrested! Yeah. That would go over really well. So instead of doing the upstanding-citizen-thing, Olly went to his locker and got some of the pills he had in disguise in an aspirin bottle. He'd need them to avoid seeing that face in the back of his mind for the rest of the day. "What's the matter, OJ?" one of the other students said. "Look like you saw a ghost or something." Olly dry-swallowed the first pill as he closed his locker. Or something, he thought, wincing at the bitterness of the coating. Then he headed grimly back onto the floor to see his next patient.

In the crumbling duplex on 127th Street in north Gotham, Margaret Collins Napier (Mags, to her friends) was paying a delivery boy for her pizza when the news came on. She could order pizza whenever she wanted now and nobody would complain about not having a home-cooked supper - alone in the house, she had only herself to take orders from. She chatted amiably with the teenager for a few minutes on the porch - something else she could do freely now - before giving him a nice tip. She liked to do that when she could; she knew what it was like to work for tips. As she handed him the money she noticed he was staring over her shoulder at the television, and she turned to see what had come on that had distracted him. The face she saw on the screen gave her a curious sensation in her abdomen - like all of her internal organs had suddenly disappeared. Not a weight in the pit of her stomach or a drop of her heart like they always said in books, but just a sudden feeling of missing things, like a Jenga tower that a block had been removed from. She suddenly felt as though her whole torso was a ringing emptiness, a vault in which nothing had ever been laid. Wordlessly she handed the pizza boy his money. Then she found herself standing in front of the TV, the pizza forgotten on the arm of the couch, no idea if she'd said goodbye to the delivery boy or not, not even really sure if she'd shut the door behind her. The news people were having some nonsense conversation about injured officers and stolen diamonds and all she wanted to do was scream at them, SHUT UP JUST SHUT UP DON'T YOU KNOW WHO THAT IS? She stood in the living room in the place where her ex-husband's armchair had once been and stared at the grainy image of her son walking out of a mob bank with armloads of stolen wealth and shrieked at a silent frequency that only her own brain could hear. He was covered in paint and the expression on his face (godohgodhisfacehispoorbeautifulface) wasn't his but his father's - but she knew her son. Oh, yes. Mags knew her son. She was torn between relief and anguish. Ryder had called her months ago wanting to know how her son was getting along, and when she'd asked him what he meant, he'd been forced to tell her everything they'd been keeping quiet - the relapse, the divorce, the near-death-experience and the scars, all of it. He told her that her son had left his place weeks before that and he'd thought he was going home, to her, so he hadn't looked for him. All together he'd been missing now for almost seven months. Nobody would file a missing person's report. He was an adult, they said. He could drop out of sight if he wanted. His prerogative. She'd told the police that he was a suicide risk, and the cop at the desk had sighed and given her a paper to fill out. But she had a suspicion that when she'd left the station, that form had gone straight into a pile of other papers that would never be touched. Gotham was a place too preoccupied with the dead and the dying to be much concerned with the recently missing. And as the weeks became months she had begun the process of trying to understand that her son was probably dead, either of an overdose or by his own hand. But now here he was - if she could really call that man on the screen her son. She was relieved to know he was still alive; but to see that look on his face, that look she had only ever seen in the eyes of her husband when he was in the middle of a hot rage and would have killed her if he'd had the ability…. That look disfigured her son's face worse than the scars ever could. Mags reached out a shaking hand and turned off the television; walked a few feet and turned off the lamp; went through the whole house and turned out every light and closed every curtain. Then she sat down beside her pizza and wept.

Julie Levitz and Ryder Wolfe watched the news together in silence, their microwave corn dogs and Ore-Ida tater-tots getting cold on the coffee table in front of them. Julie had just gotten home from a late day at work and had tossed in the microwaveables in lieu of having any time to actually cook; Ryder had been nowhere to be seen when she'd walked in, and she'd finally found him sitting in the floor of the guest room, reading through those God-awful notebooks for the fiftieth time. You're just going to make yourself upset again, she'd told him. She knew his friend was missing and all, and these notebooks were probably all that was left of the guy, but reading them obsessively wasn't going to bring him back. She'd coaxed Ryder out of the guest room and gotten them both a root beer and dumped the tots and dogs onto paper plates, and Ryder sat down to eat compliantly enough - but she'd thought he looked preoccupied and distant. He hadn't even asked for ketchup. They had made it about a third of the way through their food when the six o'clock news came on and the security image came up on the screen. "Oh, God…," Jules breathed after a few seconds. "Ryder, is that…" She didn't finish, but Ryder nodded. They were both silent through the entire segment; when it was over, Julie grabbed the remote and muted the TV, glancing over at her boyfriend cautiously. In the eerie silence of the living room, ghost-lit by the quiet television, Julie took in his face and thought maybe she now knew what he might look like as an old man receiving a cancer diagnosis and bracing himself to settle his affairs. "Ryder—"

"I didn't think he really meant it." He said it flatly, but there was a weight of emotion behind the words. Julie tugged the half-eaten corndog out of his hand before he could drop it and put it on his plate for him.

"Meant what?"

"Shit," Ryder said after a long moment. Then he looked over at her as though he had done something wrong and was afraid of retribution. "I found it in those books of his a few days ago. Dammit. I thought he was just venting, but now…."

"Found what?" Jules tried again, but Ryder was already getting up off the couch, so she had to follow him to get an answer. He went where she expected, to the spare room. When she followed him in, he was opening notebooks and laying them out on the bed in the blue twilight. She flipped on the light, and he jumped like a startled animal. "Can't read in the dark, Ryder…" she mumbled, but he was already back to flipping pages. Julie came to stand beside him and looked down at the line of cheap dollar store notebooks lying open on the blue and green quilt. The first one looked like the notes of an over-achieving AP literature student - lines of tightly packed writing, sharp but readable and sane-looking, questions and answers and references to certain pages or lines. He had been reading Anthem for that one; Julie saw rhetorical questions and short rants about societal constructs and the ego and the superiority of the individual. Nothing scary there. Just a guy analyzing a book. The next notebook was similar - but the handwriting had become jagged, scrawled, less careful. Things were written on slants in the margins, or crossed out with red sharpie. It was the third notebook that made her arch her eyebrows. The words were written in a tight spiral that uncoiled from the center of the page like the yellow brick road. She read a few phrases, and nothing made sense. There were strange drawings, crude and childlike, in the empty spaces at the edges and bleeding through from the back.

The fourth notebook contained nothing but a hundred pages of the same sentence, written over and over the way a child writes lines as punishment during recess -LOOK DAD, WHO AM I?

Ryder watched Julie shudder before indicating the stack of other notebooks on the dresser. "There's ten or fifteen more like this over there. If you put them in order from the day he started them 'til the day he left, this is the pattern you get. The first few are fine, and then they start getting weird. The later ones… well…." He indicated the one with the repeated sentence, and this time shuddered himself. Julie stared at it.

"What's in the very last one?"

"Nothing," Ryder said flatly. "Nothing but ...but laughing. Just HA HA HA, scribbled all over the place, and then the last couple of pages are just shredded."

"Shredded?" Julie asked, and Ryder nodded.

"Like he took the pencil and raked it across them till they tore. And there's something else. Here." Ryder turned and picked up a couple of books off the bedside table. One of them was slim and bound in dark leather; the other was a black, crumbling monstrosity that looked like it might once have graced a public school library - it was coated in a plastic film that was turning brown and peeling at the corners. Ryder tucked the leather one under his arm and flipped the black paperback open to a torn notepaper bookmark. "I figured he had a nervous breakdown, okay? That's fair, considering. The notebooks certainly look like a nervous breakdown. But God, how do you get from a nervous breakdown to shooting up a bank, right? And then I remembered what I found in here a few days ago. Here, look."

Julie took the black book out of his hands and saw that it was indeed an old school library copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. There were shreds of paper throughout the book, each marking a different passage like the one Ryder had held open to her. At the top of page sixty-nine, circled in red sharpie, was this:

"Professor," the captain retorted sharply, "I'm not what you would call a civilized man! I've broken with all of society for reasons which I alone can appreciate. I therefore don't obey its rules, and I advise you never to refer to them again in front of me!" Unease began to pool in the pit of Julie's stomach as she flipped to the next marker. There, a paragraph stretching between pages 154 and 155 read:

"Savages!" replied Captain Nemo in an ironic tone of voice. "Does it surprise you, Professor, to set foot on land and find savages? Where won't you find savages? Besides, these creatures you call savages—are they any worse than others?"

"But Captain . . ."

"As for me, Monsieur, wherever I went I saw nothing but savages."

Julie cringed, then turned to the marker at page 308.

"One can resist the laws of men, but not those of nature."

She turned to another marker.

"I am the law and justice! I am the oppressed, and there is the oppressor! It is through him I lost everything I ever loved, cherished or worshipped—my country, wife, children, father, mother! I saw them all perish! Everything I hate is there! Now shut your mouth!"

Julie's stomach turned and she made to close the book, but Ryder put out a hand and stopped her. Wordlessly, he slipped his finger back into the pages at the first bookmark she had seen, and pointed at a circled quote on the facing page that she had missed. She moved her hand to read it. Circled, highlighted, and underlined, it said:

What use are the best of arguments when they can be destroyed by force?

It was this last one that made her definitively close the book and look up at Ryder, dread creeping across her face. She thought maybe she understood now the look he'd had back in the living room when the news showed that picture. "Jesus," was all she said, and Ryder nodded.

"Yeah, and since you brought Him up," he said, taking the book from her hands, "take a look at this." He put Jules Verne back on the bed and took the leather book from under his arm, which Julie now could see was a slim-line small print Bible. Ryder stuck his fingers in between the pages at yet another torn paper bookmark and gave it to her. It opened to a page from Ecclesiastes; one verse on the page had been underlined, highlighted, and circled so many times that much of the rest of the text was obscured. It read:

I said to myself, "This happens concerning people, so that God may test them and they may see for themselves that they are like animals."

Wordlessly, Julie handed the Bible back to him and sat down on the footlocker at the end of the bed. She knew if she looked in the mirror she would see the same poleaxed look on her own face that she was seeing on Ryder's; but she didn't want to look into that mirror that he had been looking into for the past few months. She was afraid she might see the same things in it that he had, and that they would drive her mad, too.

"I thought he just wanted to kill himself, but I guess I was wrong," Ryder spat. He dropped the Bible unceremoniously back onto the night table and began closing and stacking the notebooks. Julie watched him collect them back up and smack them down angrily on top of the others on the dresser.

"What are you going to do?" she asked softly. Ryder spun around.

"What I should have done from the start, and maybe my whole damn life - leave well enough alone for once." He started to storm out of the bedroom, but Julie flung herself off the footlocker and caught him by the sleeve.

"Ryder, what do you mean, leave well enough alone? You've got to at least—"

"I don't have to do a damn thing!" Ryder barked. "That's the kind of thinking that got us here to begin with. If I had left well enough alone, he'd be home with Jeannie right now, probably sober. I've learned my lesson. No more meddling for Ryder Wolfe. Not my circus, not my monkeys." He waved his hands dismissively at Julie and the stack of notebooks, but Julie shook him by the arm.

"Like hell it's not your circus, Ryder! And I'm saying that unironically, considering he's out there killing people in CLOWN MAKEUP. Okay?"

"No way, Jules," Ryder insisted. "I did what I could for him, and we've reached the point where I can't do any more. And—" he held up a hand to stop the protest that was about to come out of her mouth "—before you say it, no, there isn't anything else I can do. Even if I knew where to find him and could get close enough to talk without getting shot, do you think he looked like somebody who could be convinced to come home?"

Julie thought about the face on the security camera and sighed. "No."

"Exactly."

"But the polic—"

"Fuck the police - if you'll excuse the cliché. What do you want me to do, Jules, go turn in my best friend?"

"Ryder, he's killing people."

"I KNOW," Ryder growled, and this time Julie realized he was holding back tears. "I know that, okay? And if I turn him in, there'll be one more dead, because as soon as they close in on him, he'll commit suicide by cop. Not to mention they'll bring us both in for questioning. And they'll want to search this room - so they'll get a warrant for the apartment. They'll bring in Olly. They might bring in everybody who ever partied here. We'll all go down on drug charges, and Olly won't ever see daylight again because I know for a fact he's worked on patients while he was high. And they'll drag Jeannie out in front of reporters and force her to cry on TV because it's good for ratings, and dammit, I don't care if I do hate her, she doesn't deserve that." He was breathing heavily now, and he rubbed a hand over his eyes to push back the inevitable. Julie reached over and took both of his wrists.

"Ryder, if he's going to commit suicide by cop, he'll do that regardless."

"Yeah, I know," he finally said, letting out a long shaky breath. "But for once I'm going to leave him to decide that. He wanted to disappear and be somebody else, and I'm going to let him stay that way - and if he wants to charge at the SWAT team and get himself turned into Swiss cheese, well… I'm not going to be part of it. I'm done being part of it." He pulled one hand free of Julie's grip to reach up to the light switch, but he paused before he flipped it down. "Tomorrow I'm going to burn all those notebooks. And we're not going to talk about any of this ever again."

Ryder turned out the guest room light, led Julie out, and closed the door behind them.

And they didn't talk about it ever again, not even to Olly, although they exchanged a couple of very meaningful looks with him the next time he was over. Ryder took the notebooks down the street that night to the trash can fire that the homeless population there always kept going in cold months. They eyed him suspiciously, watched him tip the stack of notebooks into the flames, said nothing. But they didn't complain about a little extra fuel for the fire. Ryder left there and dropped the copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea into the Returns slot in the door of the neighborhood branch of the library. He had removed all of the bookmarks and checked it for any writing that would lead back to them, but there was none.

The Bible, he kept - tucked into a deep corner of his closet, with the joker card he'd found on the pillow tucked in between Ecclesiastes 3 and 4. Julie never knew it was still there, and after a long time, Ryder almost forgot himself.

There was an old portable TV set from the early 90s in the basement office of Jeannie MacMillan's parents' house, and it was on this relic that Jeannie watched the eleven o'clock news that Tuesday night. She had been sitting in their living room with her father waiting for dinner when the six o'clock broadcast came on, and it had taken every bit of strength she had in her body to keep from reacting to the face that appeared on the screen. Her father was in his chair reading a James Patterson novel, his head mercifully turned down to the pages. He often listened to the news without looking at it, and Jeannie had never before been so grateful for that little quirk of behavior. And so her father heard the story about a bank robbery suspect dressed as a clown, made a little noise in his throat in response, and thankfully didn't raise his head until the anchors had moved on to another topic and her mother called that supper was ready. Jeannie sat through what felt like an excruciatingly lengthy dinner, barely touching her food and aggressively crumpling and un-crumpling a napkin in her lap. She sat through an equally excruciating round of coffee and the obligatory episode of Dancing with the Stars, gritting her teeth and pretending to agree with her mother about the atrocious choreography. She sat in the same spot without moving until everyone in the house finally went to sleep and she could creep downstairs to her father's office, move aside his topography maps and water flow charts, and turn on the ancient television that he used to watch Jets games while he worked. She sat through all the repeated segments from the earlier broadcasts until the anchors finally got to what she was waiting for, what she had been waiting for since 6:17 that evening. She had to see it again - just to be sure it was real.

The segment on the robbery at Fidelity Bank played almost exactly as it had at six o'clock. The anchors said almost exactly the same things they had said before. And just like in the earlier broadcast, the segment ended with a smooth segue into a discussion of predictions for the upcoming baseball season as if it wasn't the complete end of the world. Like the image they had just displayed wasn't an atomic blast that would shatter the fabric of the universe. Like it was ...nothing. Jeannie stared sightlessly at the flickering images of sports stats and weather reports, her face illuminated by the unearthly light pouring from the screen into the darkness of the basement, and wondered how the end of the world could be reduced to a little Nothing sandwiched between election polls and batting averages. Five years of her life, neatly accounted for in a three-minute news clip and a blurry security camera still. They had packaged the implosion of her world, packaged it with almost blasphemous neatness, and somehow it didn't rank high enough to be mentioned before the discussion of the D.A.'s prospects for reelection. She wondered bleakly if everyone felt like this when their own personal tragedy managed to make it to the news - like they were living through the apocalypse and were the only person aware it was happening. Of course, if she had any say in it, she'd be sure it stayed that way. Nobody needed to know that part of her had died the moment her ex-husband's painted face appeared on GCN. In fact, nobody needed to know that it was her ex-husband's face at all. Everyone could just go on thinking that man was another nameless criminal in the vast ocean of Gotham's criminal masses, and that was just fine. They could go on thinking that her ex-husband was an addict and had walked out on their marriage, and probably skipped town to avoid her divorce papers, and that she had no idea where he'd ended up. Nobody, especially not her parents, could ever know that she did know where he was now, that the whole city had seen his face on television hidden under a mask of greasepaint …that the face under that paint had once brushed softly against her cheek, rested in the hollow between her breasts, tucked itself behind her ear and made her heart swell until it could burst - or that he had looked directly into her eyes when he had looked into that bank security camera, that he'd known she'd be watching, and that meeting her gaze one last time was exactly what he'd been intending to do.

Jeannie turned off the television, plunging the basement back into darkness. She didn't need the lights to get back upstairs; the basement hadn't been rearranged since she was seven, and she could walk it in pitch blackness without even holding out her hands. In ten minutes, she would slide the large paper chart back over the television like she'd found it, walk through the dark to the stairs, and go up to bed. In ten minutes, she would begin the process of locking the last five years of her life into a vault in the deepest part of her memory, and by morning she would be the Jeannie MacMillan who had walked into the student center at GSU with her laptop, like everything between then and now had never happened. In ten minutes, there would be nothing left of him inside of her. In ten minutes, she would abandon this woman who had watched the news in this basement and be Jeannie MacMillan completely, now and forever.

But for those ten minutes, she would allow herself to be Jeannie Napier one last time. Wrapped in the close, velvety blackness that only exists in uninhabited corners of sleeping houses that are warm against impending winters outside, Jeannie Napier slipped out of her father's desk chair, knelt on the rug where his feet had rubbed the fabric thin, and cried hard, silent, wracking sobs into the carpet. She cried until nothing was left of the woman she had been, or of the memory of the man who had been that woman's world.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The office complex on the corner of Scott and Truman had been under construction since before the weather turned in November, but the project had been put on hold indefinitely after Jonathan Crane's failed attempt to poison the whole city. The chaos of that previous November had taken a toll on all of Gotham, not just the Narrows, and the city was now dotted with things that were half-done or that needed to be re-done. A certain measure of calm had been restored in the months that had followed, true. But nobody could seem to find the gumption to resume any of the projects the Scarecrow attack had interrupted, and so they sat there - empty, sterile. Waiting.

A breeze whistled through the glassless window openings, shuttling crumpled papers and cigarette butts and construction dust in little tornadoes around the unattended port-a-potties and still-wrapped stacks of lumber and steel. It was an unsettled sort of breeze that smelled of the river and of cut grass from the park and of popcorn from the theater down the street - the kind of breeze one could only feel and smell at the end of spring when the first hot days of summer had not yet arrived - had not arrived but could almost be seen peeking around corners, darkly hot and stifling and waiting to suck the liveliness out of the air. It was an expectant sort of breeze, the kind that would be smirking (if it had a face) because it knew what you did not, and it liked it that way. The breeze picked up little pieces of trash, played with them, danced with them, and dropped them unexpectedly in places they didn't belong. It brushed through the fenced construction site and into the building itself, where it ruffled the edges of a newspaper that was lying open on top of a stack of bricks.

The man who had been using the stack of bricks for a table slapped the paper down, deftly and precisely, as though he and that breeze knew each other of old, and he knew what tricks it wanted to play. The hand that came down on the paper was covered in a tight purple leather glove, too tight for comfort and powdered across its soft surface with brick dust and smeared paint. The arm that the hand belonged to was clothed in a faded and creased purple suit jacket that four years ago had been fresh and crisp and new, that had been worn once and then been pushed into a box in a closet. He thought perhaps it had been his own closet, and that he had worn it to something important, but he wasn't quite sure - he had become (purposefully?) fuzzy on the details of things that had happened before last fall. And it didn't exactly matter. He had a new suit being made - would pick up the last piece of it tomorrow, in fact - and then this one could be tossed somewhere for one of the vast hordes of Gotham's homeless to pick it up.

Singing to himself in a cracked and unaccustomed way, he began to gather up the items that had been spread out on the plastic-wrapped bricks. Guns. A switchblade. Grenades. An assortment of sharp objects and twine and ammunition and zip ties and all the other things one would find in a terrorist's junk drawer. All this had been laid out on top of a scattering of newspapers and notebook pages covered in strange and feral-looking scribbles of red marker. The newspapers, most of which were from last autumn and had headlines about the Fidelity bank job and the Scarecrow attack, were defaced in the same manner as a high school yearbook in the hands of freshmen. Pictures had been adorned with mustaches and clown faces, words had been strategically edited, added, or marked out - a campaign ad for the now-D.A. Harvey Dent had been adorned with a crown of thorns, and a photo of a police officer named James Gordon had been circled repeatedly and surrounded with dire scribblings. The six notebook pages looked somewhat more controlled. One of them was covered in diagrams, lists, and sentences marked by stars, with markings and arrows that made it look like a football play. It would be completely incomprehensible to anyone but the author, but it had the look of some sort of plan or outline. The other five pages were each topped with what might have been names or titles; Alarm Tech. Bus Driver. Vault. The pages began to twitch gently in the breeze as the objects that had been holding them down were picked up one by one and placed into a large blue bag.

Having cleared the makeshift table of everything that was of use to him, the man took the newspapers and began to ball them up and toss them to the floor where they would join the endless waltz of trash that danced in and around the construction site with the wind. Then he picked up the nearest notebook page and began to crush that too. He didn't need the notes anymore. They all knew their parts in the performance, and all of the planning was done. He had contacted each of them a month before, indirectly, and each with his own separate instructions. He had given each of them a mask and a list of items they needed to bring. The burner cell he had used to speak with them had now been tossed into the river. Two of them would already be placed in the vacant high rise opposite their target, awaiting the prearranged time. The old man would have already picked up their human shield in his nondescript car and would be driving toward the construction site now. Oh, they aaaallll knew their roles, he'd made sure of that, so these pages could now be tossed into the drifts of trash with the newspapers. It didn't matter if anyone eventually found them. In an hour or so, all of the people referred to on these pages would be dead anyway.

Having balled up all of the pages except one, he picked up the remaining sheet of notes and held it up in front of his face. There was only one word written in the header: CLOCK. He had saved this one for a reason, and he glared at it for a second before reaching into his pockets, searching for something. It didn't matter if the other papers were found, but this one… He clicked his tongue impatiently as he gave up on one pocket and searched another. This one mattered because this one was the only one that might give anyone a clue about anything. Clock was the last shred of connection that tethered him to anything that had happened before last fall. Clock, and the suit he was wearing. The old man wasn't aware of it, but he was the only member of his old gang who was still alive, and if that last thread of connection was to be severed, then that would have to change. So he had recruited all of the others for the job today because of their skills, or roles he needed them to play - a tech guy who could crack alarm systems, a safecracker for the vault, an out-of-work former school bus driver for the getaway, and an expendable piece of muscle to account for the inevitable shots that would be fired by the bank staff. This was a mob bank, after all, although the hoods he had hired didn't know it, and somebody was bound to be taken out by a mob enforcer in the chaos. They were all there to serve a certain purpose - except Clock. Clock was there to die. To sever the connection once and for all.

He finally found what he'd been looking for in the back pocket of his pants, and he began to hum tunelessly as he pulled it out. He bounced the object, a purple Bic lighter, against his palm for a few seconds; then he clicked it into life and held the flame up to the corner of the sheet of paper. He waited until it had caught well, until the flames began to lick up both sides of the page, before letting it fall to the dusty floor of the half-finished building. He threw the strap of the blue bag over his right shoulder, picked up a clown mask from the floor with his other hand; then he turned to watch the paper burn. He didn't take his eyes off the flames until every bit of the page was ash on the floor.

Then he smiled. The smile folded blobs and runnels of fresh greasepaint deeper into the hollows of the scars on his cheeks. It creased his face, lit his eyes, turned him into something that was the stuff of nightmares - and then it broke into a laugh. The laugh was a roll of high pitches and low ones, both bright and dark, like deep water that flashed with reflected light. It bounced off the empty concrete pillars and steel beams until the shell of the building became an insane echo chamber. And then abruptly, it stopped. His teeth ground together like the brakes of an out-of-control car that has just managed to avoid a collision. But the smile remained. His eyes lingered on the ashes of the paper he had burned, ashes that before an hour had passed would be mingled indistinguishably with the construction dust on the floor. He wondered how many lighters he would need to turn the city of Gotham into so much ash - how long it would have to burn. Well. He had all the time in the world to find out.

The Joker turned on the heels of his broken-down sneakers and walked out of the unfinished building to stand on the sidewalk and wait. Three minutes later, an old grey hunk-of-junk car swung up to the curb and took him in. As the door of the car slammed shut behind him, the breeze picked up speed and whistled jauntily through the fences and port-a-potties and stacks of beams. It took hold of the pile of ash and the surrounding dirt, spun them in an exuberant little tornadic dance, and then cast them into the corner before moving on in search of another partner. It blew hard enough to flap the corners of the plastic sheets that covered the construction materials, hard enough to rattle the loose chunks of concrete and plaster that lay scattered over the ground. It whistled in and out of the beams and glassless windows until the whistle changed into a high, keening whine, only just within the audible spectrum of sound. This was the breeze singing - because it was almost summer but not quite yet, because the air smelled of salt water and grime and popcorn and corruption… because it was an expectant sort of breeze, after all.

Because somewhere down the street was a man holding a match, needing only the right moment and the right breeze to drop it and light the city on fire. And this was the kind of breeze that was only too happy to fan the flames.

AN: Wow, guys. It took me eight years to write this story, and I'm still not fully comprehending that it's done. If you made it through all ninety thousand words, then thank you. From the bottom of my writer's heart, thank you. If you're one of the real people who managed to make it into this story in subtle (or not-so-subtle ways), then thank you as well. (Also, why are *you* reading fanfiction? I didn't know any of you were nerdy enough to show up here, so I used your real first names. Geez, guys.)
And if you're the one person who made Jack Napier a real person to me, and you've managed to show up here and read this whole story without abandoning ship somewhere around page fifty... then thank you for everything. No, really. And I'm sorry I didn't know how to help you better than I did.

Quotes in text sourced from:

Verne, Jules (1962). 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (A. Bonner, Trans.). Bantam Books, Inc. (Original work published 1870)

Scripture quoted from Ecclesiastes 3:18, Holman Christian Standard Bible