A month later, Kieren got a job.

A month after that, Kieren got into a fight with Jem's boyfriend that he lost, embarrassingly and predictably, in front of a bunch of people at a bar. He had always been slight of stature – a perfect compliment to Rick's bulk – and his mother fretted and cried as she looked over the ripped skin on his face. There were no bruises anymore; the punch had simply torn a small bit of his delicate skin under his right eye. He sat on the couch, raw knuckles seeming to burn as he tightened his hands into fists and then relaxed them, blocking out the angry drone of his father lecturing him on violence, manhood, and responsibility. What he did, though, had moral consequences past a 20-something getting into a bar fight.

PDS sufferers were often seen as uncontrollable or on the verge of violent outbreaks, which was part of the reason the public had so much difficulty assimilating them back into communities. What many people at the local bar knew was that a rotter had gotten angry out of nowhere and attacked a young man and his girlfriend. What they didn't know is that the man's name was Brandon and he had provoked Kieren. What they also didn't know was that the girlfriend was the rotter's sister, and that the man had gone down swinging and shouting slurs against Kieren's condition. The last thing they didn't know was that the rotter hadn't attacked, he had punched, and the victim had punched back, with a lot more accuracy and muscle behind the fist.

Jem came home shortly after Kieren had settled on the couch, inspecting his new gash in a hand mirror. His parents had given up on alternating between lecturing and fretting, and had retired to separate parts of the house to worry. Jem settled beside Kieren, unable to look him in the eye.

"Sorry 'bout him. I'm kinda glad you did that."

Kieren sighed and tossed the mirror aside. "I'm not. I didn't think about it. I'm gonna be in deep shit."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think people saw? Nobody heard us talking, they just saw me.. lunge."

"You—you definitely punched, though!" Jem leapt off the couch. "You punched him! It's not like you bit him! Oh, shit, I hadn't thought—Kieren, that's really bad."

"I know."

"Don't go out tonight." She readjusted her ponytail and stretched before heading out of the room. "I'll grab you whatever you need."

Kieren spent the night watching bad TV, flipping his phone around in his lap, eyes unfocused, waiting for Jem to come home. She didn't, and he slid further and further down the couch, eventually succumbing to a deep sleep in which he had bright, shiny nightmares and dull dreams.

He was vaguely roused by the snippets of conversation between his parents, a closed door, a dropped glass and a curse word. The beep of the microwave, the absence of sound except for soft footsteps as someone stepped over his outstretched legs and turned the TV off, and the next time his eyes met light it was 7 AM in the morning. His parents took care not to wake him, and he found a note from them sitting on the scarred up end table next to the couch.

Hi, Kier –

I'm off to work and your mum is going to be running errands all day. We'll do your shot when I get home.

Do you have anything in mind for dinner tonight?

Text your sister for me and ask.

Love you,

- Dad

The note was crumpled up and tossed in the waste bin as Kieren sighed and reached for his phone, certain that his sister wouldn't reply now, since he had been texting her all night. She was probably out with Brandon, he figured, and sent her a simple text with his dad's request. The house was silent and he sat with his phone in hand, dully lit, as he listened to the clicks and creaks of the house, the light summer rain on the windows.

Days like this – warm, wet, humid, quiet - made him feel like he was rotting, and he immediately reached up and touched the tiny torn bit under his eye. That could be covered up easily enough, but it was a nasty reminder.

There was no clotting blood and scabs and restorative cell work in his body now. People and accidents could make permanent impressions on him, things he would keep until- he died? He was killed? He gave up again?

It felt permanent, and that was one of the strangest things. As Amy had said, he had smashed the clock. The only end he feared was an end brought by a different hand. He could terminate his participation whenever he wanted to. There was no natural guide to take him away anymore.

He could do anything he wanted, he reminded himself, as long as he avoided more discrimination.