Stokely marvelled from Seattle: "Two calls in one month, I don't believe it."

"The first one doesn't really count," Zeke argued, "since I was just calling to cancel my wedding."

"And you don't have something just as earth-shattering to say this time?" she retorted.

"Busted."

"As I thought. Zeke Tyler never calls just to chat. There always has to be a pretext."

"Bite me," Zeke tossed back, momentarily at peace with himself and the universe. It had to be denial, but he figured he had some things to feel good about. He was paying far less than he should have for a furnished apartment with no obligation to stay, which meant that there was nothing tethering him and he could proceed with his new life upon a moment's whim. And he was relaxing on the futon and enjoying the way the early morning light caught the hardwood floors and set them glowing, all the while having nothing in particular to do except wait for Casey.

Stokely broke through his self-congratulation. "So what is it then?"

"I'm thinking very seriously about entering the University of Washington this fall."

"And moving here!" Stokely chimed in. "Oh, that's so fucking awesome. You could even stay with us!"

"Hold it, just hold it...I said thinking about it. There are some issues." And their name began with a 'C'.

"What issues? Nothing I couldn't talk you through I'll bet."

At times it was difficult to connect this upbeat, funny woman with the black-eyed, snarling bit she had been in high school. Love changed everything, it seemed. Yeah, Zeke scoffed himself. And if you believe that one, I can show you a guy who's met creatures from outer space.

"Well?" Stokely cued him.

Another threshold; he seemed to be finding himself at the damned things a lot lately as he struggled to find ways to be truthful about his new favourite pastime. There were those who suspected, but no one actually knew what he was up to with Casey. But he could tell Stokely, couldn't he? He sure as hell didn't see himself confessing to Stan...Hey, man, I've changed teams. Seems like I'm gay, at least in practice. That is to say, I've been practicing quite diligently.

He had to admit it: Zeke Tyler was needing a confidante.

Over the past three and a half weeks he had seen Casey nearly every day. A lot of days it started with breakfast; other days it would be the mid-morning coffee break followed by lunch. More often than not lunch was of the drive-through variety and they would go on to a more private spot to eat. And almost every night Casey was at his apartment and they would hang out and watch movies, or sometimes they would watch whatever happened to be on television, usually a baseball game. Zeke particularly enjoyed the t.v. nights, since they usually ended up doing something other than watching t.v.. Not so, movie nights. Zeke had learned that, for Casey, film was a seduction to total escape — even the older, black and white variety that Zeke generally found boring. He suspected Casey was capable of rendering a frame-by-frame analysis of any random selection from the Blockbuster down the street-or Casey would if someday he were in a mood to speak more than a few words at a time. Zeke eagerly anticipated the day that whole sentences and even paragraphs made a reappearance. In the interim, he had to be content with sparse little nuggets of information deduced from head shakes and grimaces, such as Casey didn't like mushrooms, preferred Burger King over McDonald's, and that he had yet to learn how to drive.

Fuck it all — content, Zeke was not.

He hadn't known how good he had it that first night, sharing a bed with Casey in blissful ignorance of all the reasons why he shouldn't. Sure, Casey would have slept with Zeke every night, any way that Zeke wanted, but there was no doubt in Zeke's mind that if he didn't make it a policy to shove Casey out the door the moment either of them stopped thinking above the neck, he would live to find it was a mistake much sooner than he wanted to. Even if Casey had been the picture of mental health, Zeke had qualms that had nothing to do with Casey and everything to do with Zeke's own, perplexing inner world of contradiction and second guesses. Yeah, it should have been a no-brainer: Boy meets boy. Boy wants boy. Boy overcomes arbitrary, unreasonable yet unsurprising attitudes inculcated by a lifetime of male training and studies the Joy of Gay Sex with boy...not.

"Hello? Earth to Zeke?"

"Sorry, Stokes."

"Thinking about your 'issues'?"

"Um...not exactly."

"Hmm. Are you ready to spill or shall we dance around a bit more?"

Zeke would proceed on the assumption that Stokes was trustworthy. Heck, she was rock solid dependable, and he was bursting to tell someone. "You have to promise not to tell Stan."

"Oh, shit, Zeke."

"I mean, you can't tell him yet."

"But eventually?"

"Eventually, yes. It's not a bad thing. I'm just not ready for anyone but you to know yet."

"I get you, okay? Now shoot."

"It's...Casey."

"Oh, is he around there?"

"Yes, he's here for the summer and...you know he's into guys?"

"Nope. Never crossed my mind," Stokely deadpanned. Then: "Shit! Is he in love with you or something?" "Or something." Zeke swallowed convulsively. "I think he's in love with me, yes, but it's more than that. He...we've been seeing each other."

"Who—? You mean...you and Casey?"

Zeke coughed up the word: "Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since about a month ago."

"Like right about the time you ditched Delilah."

"That happened first."

"I don't fucking believe this — so you're telling me you're gay now."

"I'm not gay."

Nobody could do sarcasm like Stokely: "Oh, so you're experimenting."

"Not exactly," he huffed.

"Okaaaay...you're into women and Casey."

"That's just about it."

"And...do you love him back?"

"That's personal, Stokely."

"I'm entitled to ask."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Um...I don't think Casey would mind me telling you this. He's had it bad for you since forever. I hope that you bear that in mind."

Rubbing his eyes, Zeke sighed deeply. "How do you know?"

"I used to go with him to the games sometimes. He always had this way of staring at you...like he was starving and you were his buffet."

"Great," Zeke muttered. Another kink in the knot.

"What's the problem?"

"Gee, how can I break it down? In a little over a month he's supposed to go back to Cincinnati and I want to move to Seattle."

"Does it have to be Seattle, Zeke?"

"Not really. I just want something new and far away from Herrington...and I won't give that up for anyone."

"That's sad, Zeke."

"No one can be everything to another person. That's romantic bullshit."

"I don't think I'll touch that one."

"I'm serious! There's this idea that people have to completely lose themselves in each other to be in love. It's a big scam in my opinion and everyone would be a lot better off and happier if Hallmark and Harlequin stopped spreading the lie around."

"Hmm," was Stokely's comment.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're right, of course. You're always right. Okay, so...options. People have done long distance relationships before. Or why don't you ask him to come to Seattle with you? He could transfer schools."

"But this is where it gets more complicated."

"How's that?"

"I...don't think I'm ready to ask him to do that. I'm not sure I want it."

"Aw, shucks, Zeke. You warm my heart."

"It's not like I don't care about him. Forgive me if I'm not ready to get married, I just got out of that with Delilah and I'm enjoying my freedom."

Even as he said it Zeke knew he was full of crap.

After a lengthy pause, Stokely said, "Have you talked to Casey about this?"

"I can't."

"You'd better, or I'll come there and kick your ass."

"Stokely, I hear what you're saying, but there are things you don't know..."

"So tell me."

How to begin to tell her that handling Casey these days was only slightly less scary than handling nitro-glycerine?

Perhaps the therapy was starting to help; he couldn't be sure. Casey didn't say much about it except that he was seeing someone on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Zeke left it at that. He knew that it would take time before he really saw any change — or a conclusive absence of change that said it was time to try something else. Casey did seem to be a little more...stable, for lack of a better term. He had not indulged in any big zone-outs during the past few weeks although there were moments and minutes that got to be alarming...but Zeke's voice seemed to be enough to pull him back most times, and the other times he came back on his own power. Zeke had done a little bit of reading on the subject of dissociative states and knew that the trances, while disturbing and perhaps embarrassing at times, were far from life threatening. But there was also the depression, and he had seen little to support a hope that it had lessened any — to say nothing of that entire alternate personality that Casey trotted out when none of the other disorders were working for him.

How to describe episodes like last night? It was still getting the instant replay in Zeke's head as he tried to analyze what had happened.

Herrington was officially having a heat wave. The temperature had not dropped below seventy-five for a couple of weeks and peaked most days at ninety-plus. Zeke had discovered the one drawback of his splendid new apartment: no air conditioning. It was large and airy and in most weather would have been comfortable, but through the past several days the temperature in the place had been climbing to point of being unbearable. Zeke took six showers a day in a vain attempt to regulate his internal thermostat but sleep still sucked and he was getting cranky. He had wanted to go out last night, to get out of the stifling box that he was supposed to be living in. Casey wanted to stay in and refused to explain why, which meant that Zeke was sitting on the futon sweaty and sticky and more than a little peevish, while Casey tried to be his Siamese twin. It felt like they were literally glued together even though Casey was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and regular length jeans — an act of either sheer bravado or sheer insanity as far as Zeke was concerned.

Zeke had turned to acts of sedation to cope; his fourth beer was in hand as he watched the game. He understood Casey's need for contact, he truly did, but this was too much to ask of a guy....he bore it as long as he could before trying to move away. He first shifted so that thighs and then arms peeled apart. Then he was inching sideways, trying to remove himself from that zone where their combined body heat was keeping Zeke's temper at a rolling boil.

He thought he was being fairly subtle about it until he cast a sideways look and glimpsed Casey's face. Not quite hurt, not quite mad, but entirely knowing.

"Cut me some slack," Zeke protested. "I'm stewing in my own juices here."

Casey didn't say anything.

"Oh, for..." He made what he thought was a heroic effort. "I stink anyway, you don't want to come near me."

There could not be many who would take the latter as an opening for innuendo, but it turned out Zeke was sitting next to one of them. Casey's eyes were travelling, passing over his body in broad but invasive sweeps, dwelling on certain features of the landscape. "You smell good to me," Casey replied.

He actually had the ability to make Zeke feel like a piece of meat at times. "Don't," Zeke muttered.

"Don't what?" asked Casey huskily, his voice changing, dropping and softening slightly at the same time.

"You know. And anyway — it's just too hot for touching."

Casey came right back with, "What if I only touched your cock?"

His face depicted a fevered interest, eyes dark and shimmering like the sea in a travel advertisement, suggesting refreshment and sensual pleasure at the same time. They held his for a full five seconds, then dropped to Zeke's lap, where his cock was all at attention, fully endorsing Casey's proposal. Zeke couldn't tear his eyes away from the slight shine of perspiration on Casey's skin, or the unholy red of his mouth as he pursed his lips, licked them once and never quite closed them.

Stupid brain, it wouldn't let him forget, reminded him he knew this scene backwards and forwards now. Every single time he was sickened and sad and unbearably tempted. The brain reminded him that Casey's behaviour had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with fear and still worse, and he should not be flattered by this, not at all because right now Casey had stepped out for a breather and some crazed living sex doll took over trying to convince Zeke that a body was meant for nothing but exploitation. It spurned tenderness and spewed contempt at simple overtures of affection. The Un-Casey's reasoning: Zeke likes me, Zeke should fuck me. If Zeke does not fuck me, Zeke does not like me. Simple.

His mistake was being quiet for too long. The Un-Casey took his silence as consent, slipping off the futon, kneeling in front of Zeke, sliding up between his splayed, bare legs. Zeke grabbed both his shoulders to hold him back, barking a note of panic.

Casey whispered to him, "Nothing we haven't done before."

Compassion, his brain recited. Empathy, honour...remember us?

Nope, said the rest of him.

Casey laid a hand along Zeke's thigh and trailed one finger up, up, to the edge of his cut-offs, inserting the finger just under the frayed edge, rubbing little circles that crept by increments towards Zeke's erection. His eyes flicked up to Zeke's, heavy-lidded, intent.

"I remember..." Zeke said with difficulty.

"Yes?"

"...I care about you."

"If you really cared, you'd let me do this," said the Un-Casey.

Finally, triumphantly, the brain had its way. Zeke moved Casey's hand away from his crotch, returned it to Casey. He put his own hand on Casey's cheek. "Casey, I mean this in the nicest way...."

Casey moved, shaking off the gesture.

"You're sick," Zeke finished.

"Look at you," Casey hissed, targeting Zeke's very obvious erection. "I know what you want. You just keep lying about it."

"What about you?" Zeke retorted, stung to reprisal. "You have no idea what you want."

Somehow he had struck home. The colour of the eyes softened to a wet indigo. Casey sagged back on his heels, his passion disappearing just as it always did.

"Let's try something else." Zeke leaned forward to cup Casey's face in his hands. "What if I touch you?"

He let his mouth brush against Casey's, once, twice. Slack, wet, it opened under his and let him taste. Impossibly, it was cool there and he dove in, swimming in the damp, slick inside of Casey like he was paid by the hour to do it. Casey's mouth shook under his, trembling, opening wider to give him access. He rejoiced as Casey's tongue took up the rhythm and danced with his. Casey leaned full against Zeke's chest, hands limp against him like he suddenly didn't know what to do with them. With their mouths sutured together Zeke helped him to find a comfortable seat straddling his waist, knees pressed down on the futon.

Zeke pulled his head back slightly, their mouths parting with a moist sound. Casey stared at him with bewildered, limpid eyes. Zeke just kept looking back at him, letting him know that he was seeing him, his thumb making small, tracing motions against his jaw, around his mouth, but mostly he just looked.

"You know you're beautiful?" Zeke wondered out loud.

Casey ducked his head. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth."

He took Casey's hand and brought it to his cotton-draped chest, urging Casey to touch him. Casey was tentative, his body shuddering with emotions that were fighting to find a way out of him. Zeke took his hand and kissed the palm. "It's okay," he whispered into it, pressing his lips there again, and again. A third time, and suddenly he was feeling Casey's erection pulsing against his like there was nothing between them and it was not only okay, it was perfectly right. He strained upward for another drowned kiss, Casey meeting him halfway there. It was beyond right now, it was....there were no words for what it was. He could only be puzzled that he had ever hesitated to feel anything that he could feel with this body.

"Do you want me to take my shirt off?" he breathed, and Casey nodded, his head rubbing Zeke's face and shoulder. Zeke sat up straight and tore off his damp t-shirt ungracefully. Casey's hands went flat against his torso, pushing him back again, and a unbelievably flexible tongue went to work on his left nipple, making damp little circles and figure eights...the teeth bit down, just a shade past gentleness and Zeke nearly howled, thrusting upwards. "Fuck!"

Casey teased the same nipple a little more, then moved to the other. One of Zeke's hands got threaded into Casey's hair; the other wound its way around the collar of Casey's shirt. He needed to get rid of the thing, get them skin to skin. He found a bare patch of skin, tugged at the fabric, stretching it, baring Casey's shoulder.

It took him a second to realize what was happening. Casey's head was straining to get away and Zeke was pulling his hair. He let go, lifting his hands and staring up at Casey who still straddled him, gasping.

"I want to feel you," Zeke stated. He reached for the hem of Casey's shirt, started to pull it up.

Casey jerked and cried, "no" and lurched off of Zeke as though he had been hit by a bolt of electricity, fighting to get out of arms reach. He ended on the floor again, this time with his back to the futon and arms around his knees, not looking at Zeke.

After a good long time during which Zeke battled a hundred different emotions, he got up and fetched himself another beer. Casey remained as he was, on the floor. The quiet became fearsome, so Zeke switched the tube back on and tried to pay attention to baseball.

After a time he was aware that Casey was sitting beside him, eying him with a mix of apology and despair.

"I don't know what to say," Zeke admitted.

"I'm s—"

"Don't say it." He tipped his bottle up, took a healthy gulp. The ache in his shorts had almost subsided. "Some things are too fucked up for sorry."

The memory was still too fresh; the morning after it happened and Zeke was still far from able to speculate on the reasons, still choking down a full course meal of anger and pain, with a side of embarrassment. They hadn't talked about what happened. Casey was quite obviously determined not to; and Zeke wasn't too eager to push him.

Mercifully, his buzzer announced someone downstairs. "That's him now," he told Stokely. "I have to go. We'll talk again, okay?"

"Okay... Zeke?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't hurt him. He's kind of different, you know?"

Despite the justness of the request, Zeke experienced more than a little resentment. It wasn't like he had nothing at stake in this. On the other hand, he had just finished telling her how much he was enjoying being an island. Why should she think anyone but Casey was a risk here?

The buzzer screeched again, signalling impatience. That wasn't like Casey, who would stand outside in a pouring rain without complaint if Zeke were inclined to make him wait. "Later, Stokes."

He bounded down the stairs and threw the door open. It always kind of took him by surprise how eager he was to see Casey, even on a morning after a night like the last. Zeke had to admit that he craved Casey's presence, although it was difficult to know why since Casey barely spoke and transformed the most mundane situations into drama. Zeke certainly had no trouble sleeping lately; every day he was exhausted by the time his head hit the pillow.

The face that met him outside his door was not the one he was looking forward to.

"Bon matin, mon cher. Goodness, don't you look surprised? Did you forget I was visiting?"

Zeke remembered reading somewhere that people suffered minor heart attacks all the time and survived them. He hoped it was true. The woman who had given birth to him stood on the step, smiling, wearing some kind of long, silk, drapey thing that complemented her tall, slender frame and long hair. He had been told that they looked alike but he didn't see it. Hair and eye color...okay, easy enough to admit but there wasn't much else. Really.

"Rachel...."

"Are you going to let me in, Zeke?"

"Of-of course."

Zeke's brain stepped into high gear as he led her upstairs. What were the chances that Casey had not left home yet, that he was not already on his way here? And why hadn't he bought Casey a cell phone just so he could reach him at moments like this?

"Oh, this is beautiful!" exclaimed his mother upon getting the full view of the apartment. "I thought maybe you were so ashamed of it you didn't want me to see it."

"Why would you think that, Rachel?" Zeke demanded.

"Because you didn't bother to give me your new address." Rachel's eyes were taking everything in as she spoke, assessing, judging. "I had to call Delilah for it."

"I'm sorry, I forgot you were coming."

"I told you when we talked that day."

"Yes, you did, but I forgot."

"Hmm. I guess that tells me where I stand."

A sigh and a flutter of lashes punctuated the comment, a wistful twist of the mouth as though too much was between them and wasn't life tragic that way? It wasn't guilt that she was after, though. Rachel Tyler did not do guilt; what she did was far more insidious, and she had been doing it since Zeke was a child. She always proceeded on the assumption that she was irresistible to men, whether or not they were her son, and upon that basic premise she fabricated infinite ways to make them sorry for it.

Zeke's only recourse was not to engage with her, but even by not playing along he was already losing, getting wrapped up in the emotional threads until he couldn't move without snaring himself even further. "Rachel, you know exactly where you stand."

"You sound remarkably bitter for such a young man, cheri. And that reminds me...have you spoken to your father lately?"

"No." Zeke couldn't stop imagining Casey's foot on the step, his hand on the entrance button. He couldn't conceive of a single strategy to keep Casey and his mother apart.

"He's seeing some new tart. Apparently, she's a fitness instructor...isn't that delightful?"

"Rachel...you couldn't care less."

"Hmm. You're right, it is petty of me." Rachel threw herself onto one of the couches, bouncing slightly to test its comfort level.

This was the hell of it: she was irresistible. The trail of stricken males behind her extended from London to Hong Kong. Zeke himself had passed through adoring and hating her, and if he was completely honest with himself he knew he had never stopped admiring the packaging...even as he loathed the contents. She had never let things get ordinary, not even when she was still pretending to be a mother.

"How long are you staying?" Zeke asked bluntly.

"That's my boy — right to the point. I'm only here for the day. I was on my way to New York and decided to take a detour to Cincinnati, drive up and see you."

What were the odds that her decision to drop in was precipitated by his sudden change of heart with regard to Delilah? He knew that phone calls had been made behind his back, and gossip exchanged.

Rachel looked up at him and squinted slightly. "Sit down, Zekie. Don't be so nervous."

"I'm not nervous. And don't call me that — I hate that."

"If you're not nervous then sit down...Zeke."

Refusing to sit, or sitting...neither was the correct answer so he might as well take a load off.

"What are you doing today, Zeke? I thought we might spend some time together."

He and Casey had planned a short hike and picnic at Stonelick State Park, about an hour's drive away. They had chosen the park together...performing the web search, reading about the park's natural features and trail availability. Zeke's trunk was already full of gear, and lunch was in the fridge, packed and ready for transport. "I have plans already."

"Oh? Such as?"

"Casey and I were going for a hike."

"Oh, Casey! Right...you're spending time with him, are you?"

"Yes..." he allowed, his eyes narrowing as his senses screamed a warning. There was something coming that he was not going to enjoy.

Rachel shook her head. "You want to be careful around him, Zeke. Celia Profitt tells me—"

He didn't get to hear what Celia Profitt had to say because the buzzer announced Casey waiting downstairs. He flew down to get the door, opening it to Casey's moon-pale face.

"Casey, wait—" he blurted as Casey took a step, about to come inside as he had every morning for the past three weeks. Zeke realized he had blocked the door with his body, preventing Casey from entering. "My mother is here," he said in a low tone. "I haven't told her..."

"Oh." Casey shuffled his feet. "I guess...the hike is-is off, then?"

"No, the hike is most definitely on! I just wanted to warn you."

"I won't say anything," Casey promised instantly.

"That's not what I meant."

Of course, it was what he meant.

"Okay," Casey agreed, again too quickly.

Zeke's blood felt hot inside his body. He turned away and gestured for Casey to follow him. The guilt over this dialogue, replayed daily in various configurations and contexts, was beginning to have a life and intelligence of its own, twisting inside him, feeding on his good intentions and expelling them as anger at Casey himself. He watched himself say things and do things that hurt Casey and never felt able to stop it from happening. Several times a day Zeke would look to Casey's face for a rescue, desperate for Casey's purifying wrath to be visited upon him, for Casey to call him on his bullshit. There was nothing, always nothing.

His official story was that he didn't actually give a damn what his mother thought — so why was he lying, and asking Casey to lie too? If anything he should be savouring the look of shock when he told her the truth. He imagined it would resemble the look she had displayed when the sixteen-year-old Zeke told her he couldn't live with her anymore and outlined the terms of her departure — and there, there was the sticking point. She hadn't had power over him for a while now and the second she knew about Casey she would have it again: the power to have the news spread across Herrington and half of Ohio within two days, so that everyone who knew him would think of him as "that Zeke Tyler who went gay and took up with that crazy kid who saw aliens." People would look at him and see what they saw when they looked at Casey...flaky, delusional, possibly violent...weak.

His mother was lying in wait near the door; he started a little upon seeing her. Forcing calm on himself, he said, "Rachel...you remember Casey?"

"Of course," responded Rachel, perfectly polite. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Casey."

His parents and Casey had met, right after the Mary Beth incident. They had been away while it all unfolded of course, but immediately after they had converged on Herrington along with the journalists and government officials. The Tylers had posed as relieved parents while Zeke responded to questions, and he later had introduced Casey to them with, "This is the person who saved us." Rachel had taken Casey's hand, eyes cool, had congratulated him, and had not spoken of the matter again. Zeke had never discovered her opinion of it all; he did notice that for a while afterwards she treated him with the same careful respect you would accord a hired killer: There was no reason to think he was after you, but it was good strategy to be watchful all the same.

Now Zeke could not help but see Casey through his mother's eyes. Casey was odd-looking. Small, and delicate now with the recent weight loss. Today his hair had left fashion behind and entered the realm of the unkempt. His eyes dominated his face, giving Zeke a bit of a shock when he looked at him. He was truly alien-looking, like the pallid, spindly creatures who were generally represented as The Extraterrestrial in the popular mind set. Never mind homosexuality...all of Herrington would think Zeke was carrying on with another species altogether.

"So you boys are going on a hike?" his mother queried, all bright and hard.

Zeke replied steadfastly, "Yes, Rachel."

"How far do you think you'll go?"

"We were thinking just a half a mile or so." He would have preferred a longer hike but was concerned about Casey's endurance. In fact, he had hesitated to suggest the hike in the first place. The thing was that Casey loved for them to get away from Herrington together. It may have been fantasy on Zeke's part, but the further they got from the town, the more the brittle layers of Casey-As-He-Is-Now seemed to soften and slough away to reveal glimmers of Casey-As-He-Had-Been. So even if they ended up picnicking in the car it would be worthwhile.

"Hmm," Rachel observed, watching Casey closely.

"Maybe...maybe we should go another day," Casey suggested, exactly as Zeke knew his mother had intended.

Rachel pounced. "Would you mind terribly?" she said in that gooey voice that Zeke most despised. "I was hoping to spend some time with Zeke and we only have today."

"I have a whole lunch in the fridge," Zeke growled.

"Well, why don't we eat it here?" Rachel pressed. "Or...I could take you both out for lunch."

Casey looked at Zeke for his preference. Zeke considered his mother, and Casey, and was put in mind of a yellow-eyed jackal about to pounce on an injured bird. But he couldn't think of a way to get Casey out of her scopes without saying something that would be equally hurtful.

"No, thank you," Casey said and he was doing that thing he did where he dredged up an entire day's worth of energy to say the one thing that would rescue Zeke from the situation. "You and Zeke should have some time together. I'll go home — I'm not feeling the greatest anyway."

"But you were going to hike?" Rachel favored Casey with a brilliant, fake smile. "What a hero you are."

Zeke wasted no time in steering Casey to the door and all the way to the bottom of the stairs. "Do you need a ride home?" he asked, his tone a bit sharp, grieving for their lost day.

A quick shake of the head. "No," Casey said quickly. "I feel like walking."

"Case...I am sorry."

Predictably, Casey shrugged. He watched Casey's small, lonely form walk away and turned to face an unpleasant day.

Back upstairs, his mother was pouring herself some coffee. "Zeke," she started, and just by that one syllable he knew something was coming that was going to really piss him off. "—I know you don't want to hear this—"

"So just don't say it." Zeke collapsed into the leather arm chair.

"But I need to, dear. I am your mother." Rachel sat down opposite him, coffee in hand. "I don't wish to be unkind but your friend looks like a sinking ship. Don't let him take you down with him."

Zeke dug his fingers into the leather hard enough to scar it. "Even if it were true — which it isn't — you have no right to comment."

"I wouldn't be so sure. Zeke, there are people in this world who are just born with bad wires. Maybe it takes a while for it to really show, but it does eventually and then there's nothing to be done. You can stick around and try to help them but it's really out of your control and you'll just burn yourself out trying."

Zeke's fists were clenched along the side of his legs now. "You ought to know about bad wires."

"I know you, dear, more than you want to admit. You can't resist playing rescuer."

"You know nothing about me."

If she were any other person, he might have accepted the expression on her face at this point as hurt, and he might have wanted to take back his last comment. In her case, however, she shot right past hurt and landed on retaliation. "It's obvious what he is, Zeke! Are you going to tell me you haven't been messing around with him?"

"That's none of your business — but let's say for the sake of argument that I am 'messing around' with him? What about it?"

"Are you?"

"I told you that's none of your business."

"You're my business, Zeke."

"That's where you're dead wrong, Rachel. You forfeited your parental right to give a damn a while ago."

"Why are you so angry with me? Other boys have mums and dads who live at different addresses."

"That's not — you know, I'm not even going to have this conversation. I was clear, wasn't I, when I explained to you how involved you would be in my life? As in — not very?"

Rachel Tyler actually managed to look sad, implying that she actually cared about her offspring's well-being. "Yes. You were very clear. Can't a mother hope for a second chance?"

Zeke Tyler knew the game and he knew better. "You've had it. And the fifth, and the fiftieth."

"You said we could be friends at some point."

"Well, Rachel, then I have to tell you that this conversation is not inspiring friendly feelings in me."

"Okay! I won't say anymore."

"That would be acceptable."

"God...you're so difficult, Zeke. You were difficult from day one—"

"I'm two seconds away from giving up on our friendship altogether."

His mother folded her arms and pouted very attractively. "You've made your point." She was quiet for a count of ten, toying with the handle of her coffee mug. "So...you and Casey Connor."

"Yes."

"Then why did you lie to me before when I asked you if you and Casey were together? That day that I called?"

"You didn't ask."

She smiled a sly smile, and it suddenly hit Zeke what he had done.

It wasn't such a long walk but the heat was fearsome, and it was still only mid-morning. This type of heat generally made him flee to the indoors even when he was a kid. The light hurt his eyes, his clothing felt clammy, and every step was begrudging. The lyrics from a song his mother used to listen to popped into his head and reprised themselves endlessly as he trudged along...the road is long...the road is long...those were the only words he knew of it. He could have laughed. This was the guy who was going to go on a hike? Ah, but it was different when Zeke wanted it. He always managed to find a little something extra for Zeke.

Finally home, he was beyond exhaustion. He took himself to his bed.

He lay there for hours, listening to summer noises...the neighbour kids screaming under icy-cold sprinklers, the occasional parental laugh...He was braided into one of his sheets listening to it all, finding the noises soothing. The phone rang a few times, off at a distance, and went unanswered. The house was empty now; his father had used up his vacation days and returned to work, and his mother was out, crossing items off a to-do list.

People could be very surprising — his father being a case in point. Even with everything Casey had done to him, Frank still tried to be a father according to his definition of it, while openly displaying a resigned sort of disgust for Casey's "life choices".

Frank Connor had made a real effort on the day that Roy appeared. It was only a few days after Sasha's warning and Casey truly hadn't been expecting it. Of course he was still asleep when his father's voice came shouting up that there was someone at the door and he dredged himself from the bed and staggered downstairs with no thought of what would be there in the front hall.

"Hello, Casey." Roy appeared different — less student now, more business tycoon. He appeared to be in perfect health, and Casey did not miss the wedding ring on his left hand.

There had actually been a time when Casey dreamed of having Roy and his father together in the same space. The reality was horrific. Casey sat down on the step and stared up at the two men while struggling to force breath in and out. At first they had not been looking at him but at each other, sizing each other up. Roy offered his hand to Casey's father. "I'm Roy Windle. You must be Mr.Connor. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His father was not always the most perceptive man, but even he couldn't fail to observe that his son was close to hyperventilating. He had ignored the proffered hand and said, "We've never met and I don't recall Casey ever mentioning your name."

At this Roy pulled out his most charming mask. "That's my own fault, I'm sure." He then turned from Casey's dad and said forthrightly, "Will you talk to me, Casey? I know I've done nothing to earn it."

Frank Connor's hand clapped down on Casey's shoulder with startling authority, bearing his opinion of the request.

"Just here on the front porch?" Roy urged.

He needed to get Roy and his father apart, so he had nodded his agreement.

Roy talked. He spoke of his father and his wife and his feelings about everything and how much he wished to make amends and Casey said not a word. Now that the initial panic was past there was such stillness inside him. He kept feeling the edges, puzzling, wishing that a word or something would appear, and...nothing. Just nothing. He sensed that his dad was watching; his dad would have listened with the front door open and only the screen between them if he thought he could get away with it. After maybe twenty minutes Roy had lost patience and asked Casey to go for a coffee.

Casey went.

They went to the same Starbucks where Zeke always stopped for coffee. Casey envisioned Zeke walking in, and upon seeing him with Roy he would demand Who the hell are you? and Roy would draw himself up proudly and say Roy Windle? And you are? Whereupon Zeke would do something very Zeke. He wouldn't just punch Roy. He would do something like throw a chair at him with surgical precision and when Roy was lying on the floor, bruised and humiliated, Zeke would say to Casey in a tone that was silk over steel come here and Casey would come to him and be drawn into his arms there in front of the entire coffee-drinking community of Herrington and they would walk out together.

Casey kept his eye on the door while he and Roy were sitting there.

Roy was making compassionate with his face as he took in every bit of Casey. He eventually remarked, "This is kind of like how we started out...remember?"

Casey lifted his mug-hot tea, because he felt cold all over in the air conditioned cold front that prevailed in most retail locales these days. He breathed on the surface of the liquid, letting the steam warm his face.

"You don't look very happy," Roy went on. "But then, you never were, were you? I know that's partly my fault."

The doorbell jingled; Casey looked. No Zeke.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Roy intuited.

Casey nodded quickly.

"Ah."

There was a moment of silence.

"How serious is it?"

"Why?" Casey asked, knowing the reason but needing to get to the gist of the interview quickly.

"Well...I might as well put my cards on the table, so to speak. I miss you, Casey. I want us to be like we were, but much better this time, I swear. I'll be good to you. When you come back to school you can live in the apartment, or a new apartment. Janice won't mind, she understands now that this is a part of who I am. I can visit two times a week — the rest of the time you'll have the place to yourself."

Casey didn't have anything to say. There had been no protestations of love. Just an apartment and an offer. Apologies had been presented at the appropriate time.

Zeke was going to school in the fall, as far from Herrington as he could get and he had said nothing to Casey about it so far so obviously it was to have nothing to do with him. Zeke didn't know that he knew; he had found the University of Washington calendar stuffed in the drawer with the phone book in Zeke's apartment.

"I'll give you some time to think it over," Roy said. "I'll come back next Tuesday...I'll be staying at the Best Western." He downed the rest of his coffee, eying Casey. "Whoever this guy is, I don't think he's good for you." He stood up, and considered Casey from on high. "You're free to tell me to piss off, of course, but...we could go to the hotel right now...if you wanted." Roy adopted a waiting pose. Like he didn't care if Casey came with him or not.

Casey got up and proved what he knew already — that Roy did care, and a lot at that. He walked with Roy to the door, then to the corner, and then to the hotel. Afterwards they met on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the lobby and went upstairs together.

This was how one came to be a superbly accomplished liar; at some point it became a simple matter of survival. The only time he felt real was when Roy was buried to the hilt inside him, forcing a new layer of bruises over the old ones on his hips, buttocks and arms. It wasn't that Roy ever needed to hold him down, but he understood what Casey needed, what he craved. And so the lies came easily. He told Zeke that he was visiting a therapist on Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. He told his father he was helping Zeke at his place of business. Zeke hadn't asked about who he was seeing, his father never asked him what he and Roy talked about, and it made the lying even easier — and still more necessary.

If Zeke had really wanted to he could have discovered the signs that were left for him of Roy's presence despite Casey's request that there be no evidence in the places that Zeke would see. Roy was well aware of the unkind truth: Zeke didn't really want Casey. In fact, every time they were together Roy found a way to make the point that Zeke obviously didn't have very strong feelings for Casey since he seemed only wanted to kiss and cuddle, and then Roy would make a point of biting or bruising in places that were nearly impossible to cover. He would smile and say, "I'm almost doing you a favour."

Casey knew this much. Zeke was going to leave him; that was inevitable. The only questions were when, how, and why.

The screen door banged downstairs, his mother returning from her errands, probably gardening-related. Lately she had been investing a lot of her energies in landscaping their yard. The flowers were brighter and thicker than Casey had ever seen; plus, there was a major crop of tomatoes. Somehow, the tomatoes worked their way into every meal in the Connor household. Casey was accustomed to hearing his father complain about it on a daily basis although it didn't seem rationally connected to anything since dad ate them readily enough. Casey closed his eyes and listened for the faint sounds of his Mom moving here and there, putting things away, starting dinner.

A heavy-eyed blink and dad was home too. A murmured conversation ensued. Funny how that sound signified comfort, reminding him of Saturday nights as a child laying in bed hearing adult voices — his parents and their friends — catching a waft of cocktail meatballs and cigarette smoke. Now when he heard the murmur he knew they were discussing him. He was sorry to be such a burden to them but one way or another he would be gone soon, and they could resume their lives in peace.

The phone again. He closed his eyes, staring at the space inside his lids. It had ways ofchanging color, of adopting patterns of lines or blobs of light. It was fascinating; he spent a lot of his time studying them lately.

"Casey?"

His Mom was there, holding the phone. He shook his head at her, quickly.

"He's sleeping, Zeke...okay, I'll tell him."

He was surprised when, a few moments later his mother's weight settled on his bed with a creak. Dry, familiar hands brushed his hair away from his face.

"Zeke wants you to call later. He said his mother's gone. She was in town, then?"

Casey nodded, letting his eyes fall open.

"Rachel Tyler," his mother sighed. "There's a story and a half. It's amazing that Zeke turned out as well as he did." His mother rested her palm on his forehead, then his cheek. "You're so thin, Casey. Please eat something tonight. I'll bring you a tray if you like." She paused, coughed slightly and announced, "I've made an appointment for you with Dr. Lees. It's for next Monday."

As his mother stood again and went downstairs to prepare for another battle with her son over what and how much he was eating, Casey thought to himself that people were very surprising indeed.

People could really suck, that was what Zeke had learned from an early age.

After his mother left, Zeke spent a substantial chunk of time chain smoking and panicking. The step was taken though, there was no going back. He knew why he had done it, of course. He simply couldn't resist any action that could annoy, dismay or otherwise piss that woman off — but in retrospect it occurred to him that she had not been nearly as upset as he would have hoped. In fact, she seemed damnably amused by it all.

Casey phoned him back as requested, a couple of hours after dinner. Zeke was no longer able to untangle the knot of stuff that rose in his chest when he heard Casey's voice. It was getting to be truly formidable.

He tried to be casual. "Hey, Case."

"Zeke...is...is everything o-okay?"

"I just wanted to say hi. I...missed you today."

Long silence at the other end. Casey had to be wondering what was up with him.

"Did you miss me?" Zeke pressed.

"Yeah," Casey replied sleepily, nothing in his voice to make it convincing.

"Rachel's gone now," Zeke said, so brightly he bothered himself. "Do you want to go get an ice-cream?"

"Um. I guess."

"You sound like you don't want to."

"No, I...I do."

"Casey. Come on, now. It's okay. We'll do it another night."

"Okay."

"Hey, maybe we could do our little hike tomorrow?"

"I-I would, but — I have therapy."

"Oh, right. We'll get there, though. Next week. For sure."

"For sure," Casey echoed.

Zeke tamped down a tsunami of frustration. He was tired of being torn by guilt and desire and too much understanding. He was tired of himself, and of Casey's Problems. He was tired of fighting to remember something other than this pale replica that was masquerading as Casey. If everyone could see the real Casey, they wouldn't look at Zeke when the truth came out and wonder if he were out of his mind. They would nod knowingly and say it was understandable, that Casey could make anyone sprout a sexual crisis.

But if Casey were to shine, Zeke had to give him some reason.

"Casey?"

"Yeah, Zeke."

"I told her."

A pause. "T-told her?"

"I told her about us. You and me."

"What did she say?"

"Does it matter?"

"No...not really..."

"It feels good. And you know what?"

"What?"

"You know how we're supposed to go to Delilah's birthday party tomorrow night?"

"Yeah."

"I think, maybe...maybe it's time to be open with Delilah — and everyone else, but mostly Delilah."

Something in Casey's voice was different when he said, "Yes...yes. I'd like that." A tiny hint of something happy.

"I don't mean some big speech..."

"No...'course not."

Zeke added teasingly, "I need you to look really hot, though."

"Sure," Casey replied in a tone of utter amazement.

"Okay, then. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Zeke ended the call feeling very pleased with himself. The feeling lasted for exactly seventeen point five minutes, which had to be some kind of record for him.

He had a dream that night. That was odd; he never had dreams that he remembered. The dream itself was disappointing. Thoroughly predictable, no interpretation required, thanks. He was at a party (not Delilah's party) at a nondescript house that in the way of dreams was completely known to him (again, not Delilah's, not the one they had shared for a year where the party would be). He was trying to tell people a big secret of his, something about his favourite flavor being vanilla, not chocolate. Everyone nodded, unsurprised, but he heard constant whispers around him that dissolved the moment he turned to face them. He was carrying around a travel brochure and telling everyone he was taking a trip to Central America and in fact, the plane was leaving in a couple of hours. He kept glancing at his watch, thinking he had to leave or he would miss his flight, and when it seemed like it was too late, someone told him that the flight had been delayed and so he could still make it. He jumped into his car and it wouldn't start. He was pulling pieces of the engine out and throwing them on the ground, frantically trying to repair the damned thing when he woke up and pondered the fact that Casey had been nowhere in the dream.

All day he hid in his office and told his staff not to put any calls through. Finally, around four-thirty he went home to shower and get ready for the party. He was exhausted, his voice was hoarse from smoking too many cigarettes, and the evening that stretched before him had been transformed from a milestone to an ordeal that one could only wish to survive.

The phone was ringing as he got out of the shower. Thinking it was Casey he hurried to grab a towel and nearly tripped on a wet bathroom flower, narrowly evading traction and paralysis. Skidding into the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist he was puzzled to see on the call display that it was a Cincinnati area code.

"Hello?"

"Oh! Um...I'm calling for Casey Connor. Is he there?"

"No," Zeke snapped. "Is there some reason he would be?"

"He gave me this number as an alternate to reach him."

"Who is this?"

"His friend, Sasha. Look, I'm sorry to bother you. I haven't been able to get a hold of Casey at his home number so I thought I'd try here." There was a pause. "So...you're Zeke."

The combination of sly interest and unwelcome friendliness infuriated Zeke instantly. "You know me?"

"Sure, Casey told me about you."

"Did he."

"Hey, he didn't give me any nasty details if that's what you're worried about."

"There are no 'nasty details', Sasha, and you'd better mind your own business."

"Man! Take it easy would you?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't call here looking for Casey. He's at home and I don't like your assumptions."

"Fine. Whatever...fuck! Just — if you see him, tell him I'm coming up there to see him. Do you think you can manage that or is it too much of an assumption?"

"I'll tell him," Zeke said.

"Thank you."

The phone at the other end was slammed down.

As Casey was putting his clothes back on that afternoon, Roy observed, "You aren't yourself today. Something wrong?"

Casey stuck to the immediate task and didn't answer.

"Maybe it isn't my place to say, but it seems like that guy isn't worth the trouble. He's supposed to care about you and yet he won't touch you. What is that?"

"Don't talk about Zeke," Casey blurted out. It might have seemed like defiance but it was sheer panic. Ever since Zeke's announcement on the phone yesterday, stomach-turning dread had been his constant companion. Roy always had something to say about Zeke, but today it was unbearable.

"All right, message received!" Roy shifted lazily, still naked under rumpled, soiled sheets. "I just thought...well, never mind. It's just a low libido day, huh?" In the mirror, Casey saw that he was grinning but the grin faded under Casey's silence. "I can see that you're tired, baby. I'd like to make it better. You could come back to Cincinnati early, just relax and let me take care of you."

"Need to stay."

"What for? There's nothing keeping you here. Certainly not that person I'm not allowed to talk about. Here's what I'm going to do, baby. I'm going to rearrange my schedule and stay another day. Twenty-four hours. You think about everything and decide if maybe you'd like to come home with me tomorrow. If I don't see you or hear from you I'll just go."

"You'd come back next week?"

"Of course." Roy rolled out of the bed. He walked up behind Casey, draping his arms around him and resting his head on Casey's shoulder. They were looking at each other reflected in the mirror. "What did I say at the beginning? I'll never let you go. I would much rather you were in Cincinnati, though."

He kissed Casey's neck and sent him away with the promise that he would be at the hotel, waiting. He gave Casey money for a taxi.

Back at home, Casey stood in the shower for thirty minutes, washing away Roy's hands and mouth and cock. The offer mustn't be dismissed outright. Of course he didn't want to leave Zeke — but he had changed his mind about running. He would much rather run than be chased.

The call came just as he was pulling on his usual jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. "Casey! Zeke's on the phone!"

He went downstairs to take the phone from his father. He put his foot on the stair, intending to take it to his room. "Just how many people have you told?" came Zeke's voice. It was clipped and furious.

"Wh-what?"

"I was wondering how many of your flamer friends you've told about us."

Casey's legs trembled; he sat down on the step. "I-I d-don't know what-don't know what you m-mean."

"You told your friend, Sasha."

Casey's tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth.

"You gave him my phone number? We aren't living together, are we?"

"N-no."

"Then why?"

"I-I — just-in-case-he.."

"Who else?"

"...n-needs-to-"

"Who. Else."

"M-m-my parents kinda... 'm sorry, Zeke!"

"Mm. Hmm."

Zeke was silent; Casey knew he was struggling with his temper. "Never mind," Zeke concluded at last. He didn't sound any less angry, though. "It just took me off guard."

"I-I-d-didn't mean to."

"I know. I sorry for freaking out. So...I'll pick you up in a half an hour."

Casey didn't dare speak.

"I hope you didn't forget?" At Casey's continued silence, Zeke sighed. "Delilah's birthday party."

"Kay, but-maybe we shouldn't—"

"Don't even. You can't tell me you don't want people to know."

"Y-yes, but...it doesn't have to...to..."

"To what?"

"Happen tonight."

"I said I would do it and I'll do it. End of discussion."

"Okay—"

"And Casey?"

"Yes, Zeke?"

"I don't want to say this, but...can you try not to be weird?"

"Oh...okay."

Casey's hands shook so much that he had trouble stabbing the button to hang up the phone.

He had a task, that would be his focus, not the fact that Zeke was angry with him for being just too fucked up and stupid. Zeke was honourable; he felt that he had made a promise and he would keep it even if he were ready to give up on Casey once and for all so Casey had to do everything he could to make it easier for Zeke tonight. Zeke needed him to look good. He could understand the concern; lately he hadn't really been taking care of himself, not doing the basic things like fixing up his hair or even washing his face. If it hadn't been so crucial to keeping Zeke from finding out about Roy, he probably wouldn't have showered either. It all just seemed like too much effort.

He knew that Zeke loved it when he wore the blue shirt — bought for him by Roy, that had to be either funny or tragic but he couldn't figure which. He found the shirt in the basement in a pile of clean laundry. It was appallingly wrinkled, again something that he wouldn't have bothered to care about except that tonight it mattered so he took it upstairs to the ironing board which was always kept ready for action in the spare bedroom. By the time the iron was hot his hands were steady enough to grasp it. He began to smooth out the wrinkles, hurrying but trying to be thorough too. He liked the crisp release of the steam, seeing the way things that were complicated became smooth and pleasing to the eye as they passed underneath the bright, hissing steel...

He realized that something was burning at the same time as his father yelled — "Jesus H. Christ!" — and his father was standing up the iron that had been lying face down and neglected by Casey, the acrid smoke displacing the fresh, cottony steam while Casey dreamed. The ironing board wobbled, and then there was fiery pain as the iron fell over and landed on his lower right arm. He pushed it off, barely hearing his father screaming something at him.

Casey stared at his shirt which was strewn on the floor; both the ironing board and the shirt displayed a large, blackened patch. Both were ruined.

He found himself sitting down. The stench of burned synthetic fabrics turned his stomach. His dad was jabbering, distressed. "Casey? I'll get some calamine..." He squatted down in front of Casey.

"It's burned," Casey muttered.

"Let me see." His dad touched the shirt he was wearing as though to remove it. Casey pushed him back as hard as he could. "But we need to look at it...." Casey noted that expressions were passing over his father's face as though time had slowed, as though he were watching a scene filmed by time-elapsed camera. Ice-hot waves were dashing themselves in his face, making the hair stand up all over his body. His father tried again: "Your arm, Casey."

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Casey?"

"Ruined it."

"It was an accident, son. You weren't paying attention and I smelled smoke...god, I'm sorry."

"Burned it—"

"We'll get a new one. Let me help you up here." Carefully, his dad got him standing. "Maybe we should go to emergency."

"No."

"It might need—"

"No!"

Casey tore away and ran out into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him and praying that his dad wouldn't follow. Zeke would be here soon and he needed to be ready. He didn't have very many items of clothes, that shirt had been one of the few nice things he owned and the only thing he knew that Zeke liked. He began to go through his closet, looking for anything he could wear that would be acceptable. In the end he put on his long-sleeved Adidas shirt with the same jeans. It was a trifle heavy for this weather but it would have to do.

A knock. They entered without asking, and he tugged his shirt down while they moved closer, carefully stalking him.

"Casey," said his mom. "Why don't we just go to emergency? How could it hurt?" His dad was standing just behind her, his face red and sweaty.

"Don't want to," Casey said.

"You have a bad burn."

"It's okay, it's not serious."

"Are you a doctor? How do you know? At least let us look."

She was deep into his space now, the other behind her. Casey backed up until he hit the wall. All he could do was ask them, "Leave me alone, please."

They hovered, looking determined.

"I have to go," Casey stammered. "Delilah...birthday party...Zeke's waiting."

"It can't go on like this," his mother was muttering. "It just can't."

He pleaded, "Let me by. I need...I need the bathroom."

He didn't have to try too hard to look nauseous and it worked; they stepped aside as he brushed past. He locked the door and rolled up his sleeve. His arms were hideous, all-over bruised, and now the right one had a large shiny, red patch that was sprouting white blisters and tripling in pain every half second. He stuck that arm under the cold water tap. Again every hair on his body prickled as light-headedness swept through him, and he clung to the sink for a few seconds, waiting for his vision to clear. He opened the medicine cabinet next; a bit of a search led him to anti-biotic ointment and a half-finished bottled of Tylenol Threes in his mother's name. Ah, she'd had a bad sprain in her back last fall, he remembered her saying. He swallowed three of them and pocketed the rest.

He remembered to fix his hair.

He opened the door and pushed past his parents again, hoping that momentum would get him through. It did; he was down the stairs and at the door before they realized that he was leaving.

"Casey, don't go," his mother ordered.

"Casey—!" his father yelled.

There were times when you were in a bad mood and you knew it, but you just couldn't do anything about it.

Casey was sitting on the curb out in front of his house as Zeke drove up. Zeke half-noticed that Casey didn't look well at all but Casey never looked well and other things were on Zeke's mind, such as the fact that Casey's entire person screamed gay; it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. He got in without a word and started his usual routine of staring out the window.

The silence was terrible.

Zeke pitched a question. "How is the therapy going, Casey?"

At Zeke's question Casey moved suddenly, putting his feet up on the seat like he wanted to hug them and then just as suddenly putting them down while he rocked once, twice...then he was still again.

"It's...fine," Casey said, almost completely inaudible. Zeke had to strain to hear.

"Who is it you're seeing? I'll bet I've heard of them."

Again a long pause with some sort of bodily twitchiness preceded the answer. "Donald," Casey replied in a low voice. "I'm seeing Donald."

"Donald?"

"That's...what he wants me to call him."

"And his last name?"

Casey turned to him without warning, presenting a drawn, unhappy face. "Windle," he said softly.

"Donald Windle. Never heard of him."

"He's new."

"Oh."

A few minutes later, Casey asked, "Can I hold your hand?"

He snapped, "I'm driving right now." Then it occurred to him that Casey had meant something else. "Or...at the party, you mean? Yeah, I guess..."

They had arrived, once again at that house that not too long ago had been Zeke's home. Cars filled the driveway and the street; Zeke had to park a couple of blocks away. Zeke hadn't thought it would be such a large group and it was that moment that the acid started to eat his stomach. These people were not authority figures to rebel against; the majority would be his peers — or worse, relatives of Delilah.

By silent agreement they stopped on the porch just outside the front door of the house, not ready to announce themselves just yet. Zeke would have admitted to being nervous, but Casey was very nearly wringing his hands in distress. Zeke felt the begrudging burden of having to calm him down, to keep the drama to minimum. Fuck, why had this ever seemed like a good idea? They could have stayed at home and done what they liked with no one to care.

"Zeke," Casey said.

"What?"

"You don't have to."

"I do," he returned without conviction.

"Zeke," Casey whispered, close to frantic.

"Calm down," Zeke hissed back. With a hand on Casey's shoulder he drew the smaller body over to his own and launched into a rather distracted kiss that he hoped would sedate Casey into acting like a normal person for a few hours.

The front door was opening....Zeke pushed Casey back so hard he staggered.

"Hi—!" Delilah's toothy smile faded as she took in the scene before her. "—Zeke," she finished in a tone of disgust. She turned something more benign on Casey, who had retrieved his balance. "Hello, Casey."

"H-hey, Delilah," Casey managed. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," she replied.

Delilah reached for Casey's arm and seemed truly taken aback when he evaded her. She threw Zeke a swift look and Zeke shrugged. For the first few moments he hardly been able to think; now it was just the pounding and the shaking. Chance had pushed him over this threshold. If it had happened to someone else he would have been intrigued, perhaps amused. In this case fate had stuck it to him personally, though, and he was resenting the hell out of it.

Delilah sought and this time captured Casey's left arm. Casey's other hand sought Zeke's. Zeke saw it coming in slow motion. It seemed like he had hours to think about what he would do about it.

He stepped sideways, neatly avoiding Casey's grasp, his face hot.

Casey was swept inside by Delilah. He cast one look back at Zeke that nailed Zeke right between the eyes. Anger boiled up and protected Zeke from the remorse he knew he should be feeling — but dammit what did Casey expect from him? Wasn't it enough that Delilah now had firsthand information to share around? Besides, nobody liked touchy-feeling couples who went around in public with their hands all over each other.

Delilah led them directly through the house into the back yard. It was strung with patio lanterns and crepe paper, and filled with people. One of them was Celia, and Zeke wondered despondently why he had not imagined she would be there. The next hour was a tedious symposium where Delilah dragged Casey from person to person forcing them to converse. Zeke found the large bowl of sangria and stayed near it, refilling his cup frequently and watching Casey through slitted eyes. The odd person approached him but he was not receptive to conversation and they figured it out quickly.

Celia, though, had been eying Zeke since he walked in and drifted near at the first opportunity. "So, Zeke," Celia began. Zeke could see she was already hammered.

Delilah appeared suddenly, her face white.

"Celia," Zeke responded cooly.

"I must admit I was actually surprised you left my daughter at the altar."

"Mother!" Delilah whispered.

"I didn't leave her at the altar," Zeke returned. "I left her a week before the wedding. There's a difference."

"So you had your fun and then it was on to the next thing?" Celia glanced over her shoulder, in Casey's direction. "Or maybe my daughter wasn't pretty enough for you?"

Zeke walked away from her.

Delilah caught up to him and whispered furiously, "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"You think I should stand around and listen to that?"

"No," Delilah answered, dropping her eyes. "I'm talking about you, with Casey."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, for a start what was that business on the porch all about? And how about the way you've been glaring at him since you got here? Have you noticed that he's going to drop any moment now?"

Zeke followed her head shake towards Casey, who was sitting in a lawn chair with some ex-cheerleader — whose name Zeke couldn't remember — hovering over him. Walter Selton, once a fellow team member and now a cashier at the Seven Eleven, was sitting adjacent holding a beer and holding forth on some topic that Zeke didn't care to know about. Casey was holding his head at a tilt that suggested polite interest but Zeke knew he wasn't hearing a word. And now even in the twilight it was quite evident that he was in pain. His face was beyond white, lines of tension drawn deeply on his face, and he was trembling visibly.

Right about then, the ex-cheerleader burst into gales of exaggerated laughter and slapped a hand on Casey's arm. Casey shot up and out of the chair with a strangled exclamation that drew every eye and ear.

"I`m sor-sorry," Casey stuttered into the awkward moment. "I d-don't feel well. I'm-I'm going t-to g-go."

Then his face went gray and Zeke knew he was going down aeons before it happened but still he didn't have time to do anything but watch as Casey very prettily swooned on the Delilah's nice green lawn.

"Holy shit," said Walter.

"Casey!" Delilah exclaimed. She got to Casey before anyone else.

Zeke was paralyzed for those initial, crucial seconds. By the time he got there Casey was already sitting up, blinking dazedly. He looked up and around and uttered the syllable, "Zeke?" in a tone that lacked only a white steed, rescue from a train track and riding off into the sunset. Zeke's face was burning again as he crouched down, putting an arm around Casey to help him.

"Should we call 9-1-1?" wondered Delilah.

"No," Zeke returned quickly. To Casey: "Let's go inside for a second."

"I'm-I feel sick—"

"The bathroom then—" Zeke hauled Casey to his feet. "Why does everything have to be a drama?" he whispered furiously.

He had some notion that his behaviour had been less than stellar these last few hours so it was just as well that he couldn't see Casey's face. Delilah joined them without a word and shoved Zeke aside, guiding Casey in his stead, past the curious faces and into the house.

Zeke closed the bathroom door behind them. He watched Delilah with her hand on Casey's shoulder as Casey knelt and heaved, bringing up nothing much; Delilah wet a towel with cool water and used it to swab Casey's sweaty face and neck; Delilah gave him a glass of water to drink; Delilah sat beside him on the floor. Not Zeke.

"Why'd you yell like that?" she asked Casey, reaching for the place that had triggered the outburst. He pulled his arm away. "Are you hurt?"

"Accident," Casey said with eyes closed.

Genuine worry floated to the surface of Zeke's emotional bog. "What sort of accident?" he demanded. He dropped to his haunches in front of Casey. "Your arm?" He made a similar motion as Delilah had.

Casey clutched the arm against himself. "Just — a burn. The iron got me." He tried to smile.

Zeke didn't bother to tease out an explanation. "How bad?"

He wanted to help now, truly. He thought to roll up Casey's sleeve but Casey was having none of it. It turned into a struggle, with him trying to grab at the fabric and Casey cringing away and folding his arms so that the ends of the sleeves were secured. Zeke resorted to grabbing Casey's shoulder and snapping, "Stop that, I want to take a look."

"It's—"

"Roll up your sleeve."

"But I—"

It occurred to Zeke that Casey was resisting their help more than he had resisted any single thing this summer and that thought gave him a nasty feeling. "Not negotiable, Casey. Either you do it, or I do it."

Like a person sentenced to execution, Casey did as he was told.

Delilah gasped. There was the burn and that was ugly enough, but there were also a ring of finger-sized bruises around the lower forearm, and a smattering further up, older and purply-yellow. Zeke had been thinking of Casey's brutish father, but knew there were other options to consider. He took Casey's wrist, carefully. "What is all this?"

Casey looked up at him and it was all there: shame, regret, and above all the justifiable fear that Zeke, in a few moments, was going to be parting from him.

"Casey—" Delilah tried to intervene.

"Delilah, leave us alone," Zeke interrupted.

"But Zeke—"

"Leave!" he yelled. His voice was a lot higher in pitch than he would have liked.

The snick of the latch signalled Delilah's departure. He didn't look, not taking his eyes from his wretched prisoner.

"Casey, take off your shirt."

The shame was drowned now in absolute terror. "No, please—"

"Do it now, or I'll rip it off."

Soon enough the entire nightmare was bared for his viewing pleasure. Casey's torso was branded with bruises of various ages and stages of healing. About his shoulders, stopping just where his shirt collar would not be able to cover, were a series of livid purple splotches and a latticework of bites. Zeke supposed there was more but he didn't care to see it.

He saw Casey's eyes starting to glaze and seized his left arm. He dragged Casey up against him and shook him. "Don't you dare fade out on me now!"

"Zeke...s-sorry-"

"Sorry? Sorry?!" Zeke laughed out loud. Sorry was very far from cutting it and Zeke had never been so inarticulate in all his life. "Who?" he growled, still holding Casey with his two hands. He was filled with a violence that was raggedly matched by his will, giving him only a fragile and unreliable restraint.

"Roy," Casey gasped.

"Roy? How?"

"H-he comes to t-town... Tuesday and Th-th-Thursday."

"Tuesday and Thursday. Like this afternoon when you — you couldn't go on the hike with me..." Zeke closed his eyes. For weeks he had been taking it slow, so certain he was doing The Right Thing, and Casey had been taking advantage of it to carry on with the same fucker that had brought them to this insane asylum that they were living in. "So," he ground out, eyes still closed. "I guess fucking is what sluts call therapy."

He opened his eyes and saw that Casey was trying to get his shirt back on. The expression on Casey's face suggested it might have been more merciful for Zeke to simply have taken a knife and stabbed him through the heart.

"Why?" Zeke pleaded.

There was no answer for him. Tears were falling steadily down a face that was vacant and empty yet somehow anguished. Casey drew himself up with a peculiar dignity. He whispered, "love you", then walked out of the room and out of the house.

Some time later Zeke found himself sitting down in a lawn chair holding a paper plate of food that he couldn't taste, ignoring the inane and disgusting verbalizations of people he hated while his mind could only replay, with larger-than life clarity and full surround sound, one of his life's true low points. He flashed back to the evidence of Casey's treachery in live technicolor, felt the fresh sting of betrayal, and spun one fantasy after another. The details differed but the outcome each time was himself fucking Casey into submission and Casey curling around him and swearing never to look at another human being as anything remotely like a sex object until his dying day.

Someone tapped his shoulder.

"Fuck off!" he growled.

"Jesus," breathed Delilah, who had received the brunt of his outburst. Since Zeke had very successfully isolated himself from his peers, there was no one in the immediately vicinity. Some of the guests were sitting in a cluster near the barbecue, occasionally giving him unfriendly looks; it appeared that others had moved inside or left. "Aren't you lucky I was here for you to explode at?"

"Piss off."

"Ooh, such a tough guy." Delilah folded her arms. "I want to talk to you."

"I said, piss off."

Rolling her eyes, Delilah said, "This is getting old real fast. Talk. Now."

He acceded to being drawn around to the front of the house. He pulled out a cigarette, looking forward to leaving the dead butt on her lawn. Stupidly, he took a quick look around for Casey but of course he was long gone.

"So...let me guess," Delilah started in without much warning. "Casey has been doing someone else."

Zeke whirled, half choking on his smoke. "Wha—?"

"Oh, give it up. Everyone in that house knows you're ga-ga over him — except you, apparently. I don't know what your game is."

"What's yours?" Zeke countered.

"Simple. Get your head out of your ass."

There was no point in pretending, it seemed.

"He's the one who fucked around on me!" Zeke exploded. "He's a fucking slut like you said — happy?"

"Zeke, grab a clue already!" Delilah looked truly angry, and on Casey's behalf it seemed. "You can't really be surprised. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Zeke flicked the remains of his smoke. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as he had hoped. "Nothing. Let him go play mistress if that's what he wants."

"Shut up and listen." There was an expression on Delilah's face he didn't remember having seen before. Odd. He had seen her scared, vulnerable, even kind, but this was something new. "I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone — and if you repeat it I swear I'll tear out your tongue with rusty pliers."

He had to smile at that, just a little.

"I was never unhappy with Casey," Delilah confessed.

He blinked. "Didn't you dump him?"

"Yeah, I did. But not because I didn't want to be with him."

"You said—"

"I said all kinds of crap that I wish I hadn't said now. I mean, yeah, his heart wasn't in it and he didn't know what he was doing, but he always wanted so much for me to enjoy myself that I did, in a weird way. I thought, all he needs is the right person...someone to bring him out of his shell..." Delilah cleared her throat. "But I wasn't that person. I could never have made him happy."

"So you dumped him."

"I know it sounds stupid."

"Not entirely."

"He was too much work...it made me nervous to tell the truth."

Zeke said nothing, quite astonished.

"The reason I'm telling you this, Zeke, is...I think you could make him happy. I'm pissed as hell because someone messed with him and now he's broken and...I want you to fix him."

If it was possible to be moved by a speech, he was. Standing in that new place he had no choice but to see everything from a different angle. The anger and betrayal were still around, but the terrible things he had said and done today leapt into the foreground.

"I've been trying to help him," he said, and couldn't not sound defensive.

"Try harder." The tone was stern but simultaneously Delilah laid a hand on his arm, her version of a comforting gesture.

Zeke stared at the street. "I have to find him."

"Yes, you do."

Not sure if it was wanted, he made a move towards her to kiss her. She accepted it with grace. Zeke threatened, "I'm going to make sure Casey knows what a good friend you are."

"Don't you dare—!"

"I won't tell him your big secret, I promise. Just that you stood up to me for him."

"Which takes considerable guts," she added sombrely, then smiled. "You don't face the wrath of Zeke for just anyone."

The door swung open and Roy had a pleased grin on his lips that was shaken off as he bore witness to the state that Casey was in.

Casey had walked to this room and this hotel surrounded by a black hole that sucked up all light, all warmth and feeling. He was that void, that pinprick of infinite heaviness; if anyone had noticed a Casey as they drove or walked by him, it had to be a ghost that they saw, carrying out his visitation to that stretch of road. Then as he reached Roy's floor the sound effects started, slow gulps wrenched up from the heaviest pit, accretions of sorrow circling his event horizon, unable to escape in any meaningful way. His mind was consumed by a soundless plea for help. He would have cast himself upon the mercy of anyone who looked halfway trustworthy — but of course no one was trustworthy. Everyone was alien, everyone. Even Roy, but he at least was a known quantity.

"Hey, what...?"

"...he...he..."

Roy opened his arms to receive Casey and staggered back when Casey all but fell into them. He sat heavily on the nearest bed, bringing Casey with him. Casey buried his face against Roy's chest, breathing in a scent and texture that was absolutely familiar. "Hold me in," he begged. "Hold me in."

He heard soothing noises, "It's okay, baby, I'm here...I'm here." Roy touched down to find the salt on his lips. Casey answered the kiss with his entire body, shuddering with need. He moved into it already anticipating the blissful unmindfulness that would soon overtake him, like a drunk at his first sip of the nectar. "You see," Roy said. "I told you."

Strange, but he knew better than to expect anything to make sense — until he heard the other voice and it made a terrible sense; Roy hadn't been speaking to him.

"Can't you calm him down?" A woman's voice like crisp white wine spritzer, that he had heard once or twice before.

He tried to lift his head but there was something pressing against it, muffling him, keeping him blind and gasping. An arm circled him, a ring of steel.

"No — no, Casey! Don't look, you must not look just yet." Roy's voice had become the only sensory input. He surrendered, lacking any further will to fight, going limp as his head was cradled against a dark silk shirt scented with Brut and male musk. "This is a good thing," Roy crooned. "It's what we've needed. Family. We can be a family, Casey. You, me...and Janice. I know you will look up in a little while and see what I need you to see — a friend, a lover...someone who loves you. Because she does, Casey. She loves you just like I do, and she wants us to go home with her." Roy's fingers were under his chin. "I want to go home, Casey. Are you — are you ready to look?"

Casey shook his head.

"This is never going to work," the crystalline voice said.

"Jan, you said you'd let me handle this."

"There's nothing to handle. Either he comes on my terms or not at all."

All around Casey, Roy's body was taut with displeasure. "You aren't helping, love."

"Fine. I'm going down to the hotel lounge for a little while...so you can 'handle' him."

The door opened and closed. Casey raised his head unobstructed and looked. There were two suitcases in the room. Two jackets hanging near the door, and a lingering hint of a woman's perfume.

"I called to say I would be a day late and she insisted on coming here," Roy said, sounding flustered. "She wanted to see you and she wants to be a part of this. You must understand..."

"Not her," Casey said. "Not her."

"You can't have me without her." Roy touched Casey's cheek tenderly. "I take it things are not going well with Zeke. I don't like to think of you alone, Casey, I really don't."

Casey pulled away, getting to his feet. "Don't want her."

"You'll learn to love her."

"No, Roy," he begged. "...no."

Roy's face floated towards him and then his hands bit into Casey's arms. Casey's mouth opened in a soundless scream as his injured right arm leapt into his consciousness again. Roy bore him down onto the bed, immobilizing him with sheer body weight. "You don't say no," came through teeth clenched and flattened against his cheek. "Not to me."

"Please, let me...."

"Please, what?"

"....let me up."

Roy shifted his hold but did not release Casey, breathing the words into Casey's mouth. "I know you too well, baby. A minute ago you were desperate for me to be this close to you. I know we can get back there, if I just...press the right buttons."

"Thought we were alone before," Casey whimpered.

"We were alone, Casey. And we will be. This is her way of having control...being the queen again. Just one time we need to do this and then she'll be content and we'll be on our own."

Bits and pieces of the words penetrated the mess in his head. He came to a realization; this was how he was taken over then. He had killed her and now she wanted revenge. This time, though, he was ready to just let it happen. The first time had taken too much out of him. He was exhausted with resisting, as pathetic a resistance as it was. Might as well stop and know that sublime belonging she had promised him...such a while ago now...

There was still Roy, nuzzling his throat. "Don't leave me, baby. I need you." He sat back, leaving Casey flattened on the bed. "I need you." He fingered the ragged edge of Casey's shirt...tugged at it, stretching it open. "I know you need me." He saw that Casey was still save for the shaking, offering no opposition. "Baby, why do you look like that? There's nothing to be afraid of...nothing we having done before."

"You want..."

"Yes, I want." Roy tugged him into a sitting position. "Lift..." He efficiently stripped Casey of the shirt, tossed it aside. His hands moved to Casey's zipper.

"Want her to have...to have me..."

"And why not?" Roy asked reasonably. He noticed the burn mark on Casey's arm. "What happened here?"

Casey's teeth were chattering so, he could barely speak. "It...sh-sh..she..."

"Mmm...we'll just have to be careful about that. And after I'll give you a nice bath and we'll put some lotion on it. Sound good?" Roy leaned over and began to work his way along Casey's shoulder with lips and tongue, tracing the collarbone. Casey caught a flash of an image of Zeke but it quickly turned into Zeke's face as he said sofuckingiswhatslutscalltherapy...

Something slimy and cold in his ear

them, it was them trying to get inside

and he propelled himself with a scream and his final measure of strength and saw himself standing in the middle of a freezing hotel room, half-naked, his pants undone.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" said—Roy, Roy that was his name. Roy.

"...that's...that's...how-th-they-get-y-you."

"What—?" Roy was openly baffled.

"How-how-they get inside."

Something happened to Roy's face. He couldn't interpret it. "Oh, baby. You're just such a mess. But we'll take care of you." Roy smirked as he got up to take him back, pushing down Casey's jeans and underwear. The arms bounded his naked trembling flesh, and hot breath hissed in his ear. "There are other ways to get inside, anyway."

He made a move in the direction of the door but it was tiny and pitiful and easily stopped by a hand and a mouth reminding him that he liked this, that it was really the only good thing he had. No, this was how they got you in the end, by making you want it, showing you by increments how pleasurable it really was, how he really wanted to empty himself for them to take possession. They took their time, years to train you and make you ready so that by the final time you barely needed to be told. You lie down and they even make you comfortable, softness under your knees and under your face as your entire body is encompassed by the other, pinned between the softness underneath and the hard flesh of the other above.

The first thrust exploded inside him, pain and pleasure spilling and coating and eating away what was left of him. Oh, but it was good, so warm, he was so completely within the other. He could not stop pushing back, opening for it, not satisfied with each new level of dissolution, pulling it hungrily within him until it should have been inhabiting him altogether, should have been wearing his skin.

But even this warmth could not remain, it trickled away from him. After it was done and he should not have had to discern his own existence he found he was again lonely, glacial, and he implored, "Why not...why didn't you...?"

"I don't understand...."

"You didn't take me."

"Um...I thought I did. I most definitely did, baby...fuck, you were incredible."

"But," he gasped.

"What?"

"...not enough...not done yet...still here." Tears were coming out of him and he couldn't feel the moisture on his frozen skin. "Just end it, why don't you end it...you can take me...please, I'm ready..."

Someone — Roy, yes that was the name — handled his flesh efficiently, tucking him naked up against his own nakedness, casually draping an arm around him while doing something with his other hand. Summoning the queen to them. "Jan...maybe you should come back upstairs...yeah, he's ready."

A click as the phone was put aside. One hand joined the other, gliding up and down, reminding him that this was not his body. He closed his eyes, wanting the hands stroking his skin, teasing lightly across his chest, dusting his nipples, his belly, and then down between his legs. He was quiescent, letting them explore and bring him to full arousal again.

"Oh, Casey," sighed Roy. "There'll never be anyone like you..."

The sound of the door announced her. He tensed and Roy continued to soothe him, playing with his body while holding him in place. He forced himself to lift his lids and watch her approach. Blond, slim, face set in lines of arrogance and control, she was just as ever, exactly as he remembered. She had taken off all her clothes and was approaching naked, just as before.

Roy pulled the covers back and nudged Casey to the middle of the bed.

"Lie down, baby," he urged, while the blond woman got in on the other side.

Despite his wish to have this be a sacred moment, they had to force him down. Arousal vanished, leaving only terror. He had tried to extinguish the last, frail glimmer of consciousness, to make way for her; he hoped she knew how he had tried, how diligently he had practiced his oblivion — but what he hadn't counted on was the obstinacy of his squalling self that refused to let go so he had to be conscious at the end. It kept and offered up the last of him to destroy as she liked.

"God, relax, baby," Roy pleaded with him. "You're like a block of ice." There was a hand that massaged his flesh, trying to bring something to life.

"I don't know about this," said a distant female voice.

"Just touch him, love and it will be fine. Here..."

Her hand now on his body where Roy's had been. It was good enough...he presented the final offering to them...no, not them, it...a thing with multiple arms and legs that enclosed and tangled about him. The creature turned him onto his front, ran damp tendrils down his back, tracing the line that led down to his body's opening, touching, then penetrating. He called out, flailing — a hand grasped his, pressed it against the small of his back. A wet orifice sucked at the back of his neck, and the tentacle pushed deeper inside him. He knew well how to let everything out of himself, to loosen and surrender, and he made it happen now, wanting only for it all to be done and over. And it kept moving, pressing inward and he gave himself to the first, tiny blossom of pleasure and with relief knew no more of himself.

Voices. His body lying face down. Alone in a wasteland of cold.

"I can't," she said.

He rolled over, slowly with his stiff, hurting body and saw two standing at the end of the bed, both naked, a man and a woman...Roy and Janice.

"We had an arrangement."

"And I'm sorry, but I can't stick to it, Roy! I just can't."

"You didn't give it a chance."

"I think we just did, as much as we could. Maybe if any of us wanted it this way it would help, but I don't want it, you don't really want it, and I sure as hell know he doesn't want it!"

"You could have just let us be, you know. It isn't like you didn't know where I was going on my little trips."

"But I wanted...I had to see for myself, you couldn't understand. I just thought I could handle this but I can't. Now I know that I'd rather see you pick up boys off the street!"

Casey didn't think he made a noise but he must have for they both suddenly looked at him, saw him being as small as he could on the bed.

"You should go," Janice informed him, not angry or unkind, just telling him. "Oh, Christ, I feel dirty." She grabbed Casey's jeans which were crumpled on the floor near her feet, and placed them on the bed. "Please get dressed."

He did as he was bid, fumbling with it. A bolt of pain shot through his arm, and another like a knife into his insides, originating from his ass. He struggled to get his zipper up. His entire body hurt, actually.

"No!" Roy burst out. "Janice, you're fucking everything up!"

"Everything is already fucked up, Roy. There are limits, you know? We may love you, but we have limits."

"Casey doesn't," Roy sneered. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Janice cried, "Well, I do! Either you walk out of this room right now and never see him again or I'll divorce you!"

Casey didn't bother trying to breathe, just stood beside the bed, trying not to be heard or seen.

Now Roy was leaving and it was quite a mundane affair. Shoes, socks, briefcase...phone. Persona reassembled, Roy turned back to his wife. "You'll never know me," he decreed. "You can have my body but that's all you get."

He marched out of the room without a word or a glance for Casey.

Janice's proud stance crumbled as she dissolved into tears, struggling to regain control. She clenched her fists and refused to sit down, collecting her things while Casey cowered in the space between the wall and the bed. He was half-turned to the wall with his face against it, examining the grain in the wallpaper, rubbing his fingers on it...distractions from the sound inside his chest, a sound that terrified him. He made himself preoccupied with holding it in.

He hadn't realized she was standing there until she touched him. Startled, he inadvertently let loose the noise in him and then he couldn't stop it. Janice jumped back, lingered for a moment as though she might speak or do something, and then in the wake of the unseemly keening noise that he was making, she fled.

Zeke's first stop, born of wishful thinking, was Casey's house; predictably, all he succeeded in doing was getting Casey's parents worried. Even Frank was displaying nothing but open concern for his son, which reinforced to Zeke that Casey must be found as soon as possible.

"He was hurt and he wasn't himself at all," mourned Allison. Zeke almost burst out in nervous laughter. "We wanted him to stay here — but he just ran out."

Because Zeke had been waiting. Worse even than that...he had been commanding, issuing orders and Casey jumped, didn't he, Zekie boy?

"I'm going to go look for him," Zeke announced. "Although I can't think of anyplace he would go in particular."

"Maybe your apartment?" Frank suggested.

"No, I don't think so." He didn't want to get into the reasons why Casey would suddenly shy away from the only refuge he had. Nor did he want to admit that he had refused Casey a key.

"I'm going to look for him, too," declared Frank. "I can't just sit here."

"I'll go," said Allison quickly.

"Mrs. Connor, why don't you stay here in case he shows up?" Zeke suggested.

"Okay...right."

Over the next two hours Zeke drove every street in Herrington — twice. Despite his initial evaluation of the probabilities, he also checked in front of his building a couple of times. It occurred to him that Casey might have phoned him at home so he went inside and sat down, thinking to have a brief rest and then resume the search.

An idea came. He looked up Sasha's number on his call display list.

"...'lo?"

"Sasha, this is Zeke Tyler."

A breath was taken and then Sasha cried, "Ohgodogod, tell me something didn't happen."

"No, at least I don't think..."

"You don't think?"

"Did Casey call you?"

"Tonight? No."

"Fuck."

"What the hell is going on?"

This morning that question would have brought about another stupid, self-interested internal rant, but Zeke answered it now without a thought. "Casey and I had a-a bit of a disagreement and he took off, and I haven't seen him since."

"You sound really worried," Sasha's voice came.

"Hell, yes, I'm worried! I'm afraid he's going to do something to-to hurt himself."

"You have to find him."

"I looked. I'm out of places to look."

"Look again."

"So he didn't call you then."

Sasha didn't answer right away. "He might have gone to Roy," he acknowledged suddenly.

Zeke fought down the emotions this name invoked. "But where? The bastard was already here today for his bi-weekly visit. He should be on his way home by now."

"His...visit?"

"Yeah, his visit. Casey took off because I found out that Roy has been coming here twice a week. Casey was lying to me....said he was seeing a therapist. Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"I'll fucking kill him."

"Roy or Casey?"

"Both of them — no, not Casey. I'm just going to.... fuck, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"You didn't know, then."

"Of course not! I begged Casey not to give that creep the time of day but...aw, shit. I'm coming earlier. The day after tomorrow at the latest. Maybe tomorrow — I'll have to see if I can get someone to trade shifts with me."

Zeke found that he was relieved at the prospect. "Thank you."

"It's not for you."

"I know. But thank you anyway."

"Hold on. What if Casey's already here in Cincinnati, or on his way?"

"Casey doesn't have money for the train."

"Roy would send it to him."

"Look...I can only rule things out one at a time. If Roy were here, where would he be?"

"A hotel. The best in town."

"We don't have much here in the way of luxury. The Best Western is probably the most upscale." Zeke got up and grabbed his coat while securing the phone to his ear with his shoulder. "I'm going to check them all if I have to."

"I'm coming up there as soon as I can. If you find out anything, call me immediately. And Zeke?"

"Yeah."

"I know you're angry and you have every right to be. But try to understand. You don't have to condone, just understand."

"I'm not going to rip his head off, Sasha. Sorry, but I really have to run. I'll keep you posted."

Over the next three hours Zeke sprouted a thesis that hotel staff were stupid cattle without a glimmer of independent thought or reason. Not a one would claim to having seen Casey, although some of the Best Western staff remembered Zeke himself by name, and also that he owned a sports store and had once played football. Finally, he found someone who recalled Casey meeting "a gentleman" in the lobby a few times, but the guy couldn't remember how recently and absolutely refused to give out the gentleman's room number. Zeke could only come up with the name "Roy" and that wasn't a sufficient reassurance that a guest's privacy would not be violated. Zeke gave up at last in despair and convinced himself he would much prefer that Casey was in one of these rooms with Roy. As much as he hated the thought, it was preferable to some other possibilities, things he couldn't bring himself to envision.

He went home.

Despite everything he slept for a few hours, stretched out in the leather armchair. He was wakened by his cell phone. Apprehensive, he pulled it out and glanced at the display. Tyler's Sports Equipment, it read. He didn't want to hear it, whatever it was. He ignored the call — but five minutes later the store called again.

He punched the talk button. "Petra, I'm afraid I really don't—"

"Zeke, it's about your friend."

"What?"

"Casey, right?"

"Yes, what?"

"One of the waitresses at the Jam called me. She didn't know how else to reach you. Um...she said he's there and you might want to—"

Zeke slammed down the phone and ran. For the first time ever he was thankful for small towns and that Herrington was one of them.

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