As a child, his teeth had plagued him endlessly; he'd been prone to gum infection and rot, a product of both the times and the inability of the adults in his life to teach him basic skills. As a result, the few sunny years where America hadn't been obsessing over his eating habits had been spent obsessing over his teeth. He'd accomplished good weeks, good months of flossing each night, rinsing with mouthwash, brushing his teeth twice a day. He'd even gotten them straightened, once braces had become more widely available. The problem was, his teeth had never been great— white enough, but always sensitive and unhealthy.

There hasn't been a good week of dental hygiene for him since his disordered habits had started up again. Purging, though he'd only done it once, makes it seem useless to even try. He knows it must be too late now, and anyway, he never flossed while restricting. No, there's no point in trying anymore— not really.

That doesn't mean, though, that it doesn't scare him. Every time his teeth hurt he is hit by this wave of panic, by the mental imagery of growing old with a lack of teeth. Even once he decides he's going to die, he still can't tame it.

America's boss calls him into his office at the start of his shift one morning. Usually Alfred stands, but today his boss tells him to sit down. America sits across from him, on the couch usually meant for some diplomatic leader or other vastly more important individual, and shivers. His boss has been keeping the office a little colder lately.

"Am I— am I in trouble?" America manages.

"In trouble," his boss repeats. He clears his throat and then chuckles a little. "No, no. Of course not, Alfred. Christ, if you were in trouble, what would that mean for the rest of us?" Here, his boss motions for him to join in the laughter. Alfred does, and then his boss cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "I was just… wondering… if there was anything you wanted to say, you know, to me. It's a safe environment."

"Anything to say like what?"

His boss sighs. "Look, Alfred, I'll be honest. You look like shit. Your coworkers have been noticing how tired you always seem, how your productivity has dropped. I wanted to give you the opportunity to tell me if you had anything going on. If there is something, we can figure it out together, and you won't be penalized for it or anything."

"Nothing is wrong."

"Is it… is it sleep issues, Alfred?"

"No."

"Is another nation bothering you?"

"Not any more than usual."

"Are you experiencing any type of physical or emotional distress?"

"I don't believe so."

His boss leans back in his chair. "Can you think of anything that would cause your behavior to change so drastically?"

"I cannot."

"Well, then. I'll cut you a deal. You are to take a month off of work to rest and reset a little. You will be paid, so there's no need to worry. Hell, I don't even care what you do with it— go on those roadtrips you love to go on, or direct an amateur film, or get a different job. But when that month is over, you must see a doctor and get a written note that you are in good health. If you are not, you will not be allowed to attend international conferences until you recover. You will move out of New York City, away from UN headquarters, and you will go somewhere nice and quiet to recover. We can discuss a decent location for you later… but that will not happen because you are in good health, so just go out and have fun."

America can't possibly think of what to say to that, so he stays quiet.

"Do you have anything to say to me now, Alfred?"

"No— well. That seems a little harsh, doesn't it? Nothing is seriously wrong with me."

America's boss shakes his head. "There is no reason for you to behave this way if you are not ill, and there is no reason you should be ill right now. If you are doing anything reckless with your health, it may be better that you take time off anyway."

On the way out, America thinks of what his boss had said— his coworkers are noticing that he is tired and unproductive. Not that he is thin.


America is convinced that the cashier at the convenience shop nearest his house either has an eating disorder or is in extreme poverty. All he really knows is that the guy is goddamn emaciated. It doesn't matter to Alfred which one the man is— after all, he works in a convenience store. If the guy is living in extreme poverty, then he shows much more self-control than Alfred, who wouldn't have been above stealing things when he was younger, before his people created "heroes" for him to look up to. If the man has an eating disorder, he is much more successful with his goals than America is. America tries to tell himself that people are naturally as thin as this man, whose arms are twigs and whose knuckles pop out of his skin. Somehow, that's even worse.

So what happens is this: every few days, America walks into his convenience store and tries to buy soda and some sort of junk food. When he gets up to this goddamn clerk, all he can think is, I bet this man lives off fucking diet soda and tuna and I bet he does it by reminding himself of how goddamn fat I am. He still buys the soda and the food, and he still consumes them, but he restricts later to make up for it. Then, two or three days later, he supposes he ought to recover and decides he would really like a Coca Cola— what used to be his favorite— and a bag of chips…

He has a conversation with the man over a miniature package of powdered donuts one time. "These are the best," the guy swears. "Better than Hostess, and even a little cheaper. I love them."

America remembers loving this brand of miniature donuts, too, but when he goes home to eat them, he finds that they are not nearly as good as he'd thought. Asshole. America is never going to buy these donuts ever again.

Every day, America wakes up thinking that he will recover starting that day. In the afternoon he either restricts or eats and feels so guilty about it that he decides he must restrict later, that surely he can recover in two weeks or one week or three days. It was never going to happen. He's forcibly placed on leave at the end of the month.

His boss doesn't say anything about his failure. Instead, he asks if there is anywhere in particular that America would like to go. America doesn't say anything, so he is relocated to Denver. His boss hopes that, with all its federal buildings, they can keep a close eye on him without risking him running into others. As if his government didn't have the power to ensure his solitude anywhere in the world.


Within a week, America has added several more foods to the list of things he will never eat again (plain ice cream sandwiches, Haribo's watermelon gummies, and sugar-dusted donuts— all things that have recently disappointed him). In three days, just as many people are openly hostile toward him upon finding he's from New York. Several more people congratulate him on having left. He finds a note on his New York-plated car that reads, "GET OUT, TRANSPLANT!"

The nicest person he meets in his first week in Colorado is a Californian. It's not that he needs people to be nice— he is pining for New York City, after all— but the way Coloradans describe themselves as 'nice', and anyone else as vitriolic, bothers him. Denver is a lonely place, he decides. Worse still is that Colorado is not defined by music or art or anything he finds especially interesting after all this time, so nothing can take the edge off his relocation.

With all this in mind, he calls his boss and asks what can possibly be done to be allowed back in New York City, if not to meetings with the other nations. His boss tells him he must choose to recover and then actually go through with it, and that he doesn't care how it happens. America just can't come home until he gains enough weight to be "healthy", until he proves that he can eat at maintenance levels.

His boss says nothing of his actual mindset, nor does he demand that America go to a clinic. He's an old man, after all— he must think America could eat all this away. America is convinced he can, too. He can stop any time he wants, and he misses New York so much that he just might.

The food isn't even good here, America thinks. Why can't I stop eating it?

It's another day of counting calories. America knows he should be trying to recover, but he can't kill the desire to know. Upon knowing, he is typically filled with disgust, but he keeps eating, and by the end of the day he always reaches a number that is likely right around his maintenance and that he should be okay with and isn't.

The worst part is the eating at night, because he knows he could've just gone to sleep and instead he'd went to the kitchen and stuffed his face like a goddamn fatass, and he's screaming at himself in his mind to just throw it up… but he can't do that. He doesn't want to have to live with no teeth, and more importantly he doesn't want to be found keeled over a toilet with a ruptured esophagus or some shit. Instead of vomiting, he does bicycle crunches on his floor. Then he gets bored of those and switches to bear-taps, and then he does as many jumping jacks as he can. He knows it's not really burning off what he ate, but it feels better than doing nothing and he's getting rid of the urge to vomit.

Tomorrow, he'll eat normally. He'll eat like he did today, but he won't feel so bad about it. Tomorrow. When he sees the other nations again, maybe a month or two or three from now, they will be happy that he does not look so thin right now— but what if he recovers and the other nations notice that he's gained, that he's heavier then than he was when he started? Wouldn't that just be the worst? That would be so embarrassing. It's better to be sick, he thinks. If he shows up noticeably thinner, they'll think it's something out of his control rather than that he's gluttonous. And sure, he could always just wear more conservative clothing, try to hide the way his body looks, but in the end nothing can hide the roundness of his cheeks, the softness of his jawline…

If France and Japan and Canada could see him right now, deprived of everything except his life, they'd be embarrassed. They'd be ashamed at all the effort they'd put into him just for him to be endlessly controlled by food. They would never forgive him for being so weak. It's not just them, either— there had been dozens of bosses, coworkers and such that had taken care of America over the years. Dozens of fleeting characters that invited him to holiday dinners when he didn't have anyone missing him, that gave him advice when he needed it, that were remarkably kind to him for no reason other than the sake of doing so— dozens of humans that, unlike his nation friends, are dead and probably are ashamed of him, that have shunned him after being given the chance to watch. When he dies, if there's anything else, maybe he won't see any of them only because they won't want to see him. They would never forgive him for wasting their limited time, for being such a burden on everyone when all that effort could've gone to someone that wasn't so fucked up.

… Anyway, he doesn't want to die over a toilet. Tomorrow, though, he'll start restricting so efficiently that the next time he has heart palpitations will be the last time. He'll be out of France and Canada and Japan's lives, and everyone else's, before they get the chance to be out of his. If he goes like this, they might even forgive him; at least he'd've stopped wasting their time. If they don't, at least he'll probably die thin.

Briefly, he considers calling Britain and telling him everything. Britain would be safe because Britain is already disappointed in him; surely there's nothing America could say to increase the pain he has caused already— but really, what would America even say to him? He puts the phone back down.