Everything at the Jam looked normal to Zeke's frenzied eye. That wasn't right; somehow he expected to drive up to a building where his lover was probably in a state of complete and total meltdown and find it in flames. At the very least there should be a flashing marquee. But no, he was the panic, tearing up with squealing of tires and purpose distilled from pure terror all through his body. Erupting from the car he had time to observe that there were quite a few bystanders giving him the curious eye. He catapaulted himself through the front door, trying to take in everything at once.

He registered the typical assembly of regulars and newcomers. Waitresses were delivering food, like they tended to do in restaurants. As he skidded across the threshold a few customers turned their head in his direction--

"Zeke."

Anne was standing right in front of him; he had been looking so hard he hadn't seen her. With a nervous little gesture she indicated the men's bathroom. The cook, Evan, had been pressed into service as a bouncer and was standing solidly in front of the door, looking unhappy.

"In there?" Zeke inquired. "You're keeping him in there?" His mind immediately went to the many potential injuries that could be suffered...so many hard, slippery objects...just too many ways to dent a skull. Exactly how stupid are you people?! he wanted to scream but that wouldn't be very constructive, would it?

"Sorry, Zeke," Anne fumbled. "Sorry, but he looks bad and we didn't know what to do. Gary wanted to, um...to call the police."

The owner and manager of the restaurant, Gary was hovering with arms folded. "I still think–" he opined, exasperation dashed across his face and through his voice.

"Please don't," Zeke interrupted. "Just let me talk to him."

"He might need an ambulance," Gary insisted. "He's all banged up and he can hardly stand."

"I'd rather take him to the emergency myself," Zeke pleaded, aware that he was taking a considered risk. For all he knew Casey was dying in there.... "Then he didn't look seriously injured...I mean, he walked here, right?"

That was not the note he was trying to strike. Instead of being a calm, adult and persuasive Zeke, he was coming off as a desperate and wheedling Zeke.

"See for yourself," Gary said, lifting his hands in the universal gesture for passing the buck. There was also a hefty portion of disgust for some reason that Zeke was not looking forward to discovering.

Evan stood aside so Zeke could enter. Cold sweat blooming all over his body, Zeke pushed open the door. It was an older bathroom, the kind that never really looked clean. A tiny window, two stalls, a urinal and a sink. There was no pool of blood, no corpse in sight. Zeke let the door swing behind him. "Case? You here?"

Not a sound.

"Case?"

If he were in here, which he had to be, then there was really only a couple of places to look. Zeke knocked on both doors, one after the other. "You in there? Casey?" The first door creaked open to...no one. The second was locked. Ignoring his sense of the ridiculous, he bent down for a peek. He didn't see any feet on the floor.

"Casey, it's Zeke. Will you open the door for me?"

Nada.

He straightened up and leaned against the stall, thinking. His brain supplied several courses of action; he didn't like any of them particularly, especially if Casey was in there hiding from one or more monsters. Former days at Herrington High crowded Zeke's memory. How many times had he carried out his illicit transactions in that bathroom while Casey crouched just on the other side of the metal wall nursing his injuries?

He tried again.

"Please, Case. I don't want to...to do something you won't like." There was a tiny, agitated sound, the first indication of life on the other side, a reaction to Zeke's unintended threat. "I'm here to help this time. I promise..." But why should Casey believe that? The last time they spoke, Zeke had not acted much like a friend or lover. "I'm not angry with you, Case. I'm really not, I'm...I'm scared, actually."

He rubbed his forehead, out of words.

For too long he stood there coming to the realization that he didn't want that door to open. He didn't want to deal with whatever was behind it. But he was Zeke Tyler and that was what he did. He dealt.

He waited a slow count of three, then said, "I'm coming in."

Just then there was a tiny little sound, the noise that the latch made turning in its socket. Zeke wished he could consider it a gesture of trust. It was probably more like an attempt to ward off the spectre of Zeke worming his way under the door like a creature from some cheap horror-film assault. Taking in one long breath, Zeke pushed the door to the stall.

The metal hinges creaked, revealed human flesh compressed onto the toilet seat, feet and knees pulled up and arms hugging ankles. Somehow during the night he had lost his shirt, shoes and even socks; he was wearing only his jeans, and from the red etchings on his feet it appeared he had walked a ways. At some point he had fallen on his face. With a bloody patch on his forehead, a fresh collection of scrapes and scratches plus the previous catalogue of Roy-inflicted disfigurement and the burn on his arm, which was looking shiny and painful, Casey was a site of devastation.

Zeke knew not to move any closer; he remained standing just at the entrance to the stall. "Hey."

Casey hunched more, making himself impossibly small. There was nowhere for him to go, no escape from the intruding voice and looming shape. He was looking past Zeke, staring at open space with a piteous determination. His pupils were unfocussed and incoherent, straining to achieve some slight buffer between himself and whatever frightening alter-reality he was experiencing.

Zeke voiced his thought: "Aw, shit."

He was going to have to take Casey to the hospital, no question about it now and there would be no stopping the process that would unfold, unless he could somehow talk Casey out of this fugue. And what would be the point of that when there would always be more of them and Casey would be condemned to go on just as he had been, but even worse off than he had been? It had to be the hospital now, but maybe there would be a way to handle it.

Zeke tried to produce an unthreatening cadence with a vocal instrument that was all out of whack. "I'm really happy...happy I found you, Casey. Will you come out?"

Nothing, but he hadn't expected a reply. Normally in a crisis inspiration would come to him; this time he was coming up empty.

"Funny how we're always in the bathroom, huh, Case? This is hardly an improvement over Herrington High..." Stupid, he was not getting anywhere with that line. He studied his friend carefully, seeking evidence of a sentient mind. The presentation was all instinct, nothing but simple response to stimulae. The eyes were heavy-lidded and reddened. "Okay, how about this? I'm sorry. I was a complete and total prick."

It was subtle, it was barely noticeable, but something in Casey's posture answered, something went still even as shivers tore through his body and his eyes persisted somewhere over Zeke's shoulder.

"Yeah," Zeke went on hopefully. "You have every right to not speak to me...but all the same if you feel like saying something...I wouldn't object." He paused for breath and nerve. "I'm just going to sit down right here if that's all right with you."

The floor was damned hard, and rather cold, and he didn't want to consider its cleanliness.

"Delilah really gave me a piece of her mind after you left the party last night, Case. She made some good points. Like the fact that I've been a prick. It's hard to admit you've been a prick, you know that? Plus you know how I hate to lose an argument, especially with Delilah." Zeke squirmed and crossed his legs, trying to find a less uncomfortable position. "The thing is, I've been scared and everyone could see it except me. My mother even had it figured out. I do care what people think about me...but I'm trying to get over it, Case, I promise I am."

"Sz...Zeke?"

Zeke had never loved his own name, not until now. He launched himself up onto his knees. "You're speaking to me."

But not looking at him. "Thought they got you."

"They?"

Casey slurred, "The...Mary Beth...Gabe and–and–S-Stan–"

Zeke forced his expression into a peaceful mask. "They didn't get me, Case. You're safe."

It was Casey who had the luxury of tears in this whole scenario. His eyes were enormous, glittery. "But the–the–t-teachers and m-mom and d-dad... they got them...."

"Not me. You can trust me," Zeke crooned. He edged a little closer on his knees, stopping when he saw Casey's body tense up. "You're bleeding, Case. We need to get a doctor to look at that."

A tear rolled free and splashed on Casey's bare chest. His next words were mystifying: "She was going to take–take me--but it didn't work--and he left."

Zeke was all the way into the stall now. He bent one knee and rested an elbow there; with the other he dared to touch Casey's shoulder, more than half expecting him to freak out. He didn't, just peered at Zeke with an exhausted sort of wariness. It was then that Zeke's olfactory nerves provided him with the data he didn't want, the evidence of what Casey had been doing last night. The scent of sex was unmistakable. Zeke repressed a fierce urge to interrogate Casey about every minute that they had been apart, what had happened, and where, and with whom....no, he mustn't. Couldn't. As it was, he could barely bring himself to picture Casey with that man , if he brought that image into focus he would lose his mind and take off on some mad, rage-fuelled vendetta. "Case--"

Just on the other side of the wall someone in the kitchen dropped a dish; even at a distance the crash was apocalyptic. Casey cringed, his body trembling so violently he was at risk for falling off his perch. Zeke closed the space between them, unable to bear it. He put an arm completely around Casey's shoulders and shut away thoughts of unfinished business with a person who was imprinted on Casey's body.

"Casey," he said in a low voice. "Please don't–don't be afraid. I swear I'll do anything to make you feel safe. Please."

"Lef' m-me...."

It could have been meant for someone else, but Zeke went with it. "I know it seemed that way, but I'm not angry anymore, Casey. And you know...I may get angry sometimes but I don't want you to go anywhere either--" Bemused, Zeke heard his own voice break. He hadn't cried since he was twelve, not even when he was fourteen and broke his arm and he threw up it hurt so much, not when he was nineteen and aliens invaded his home town. He choked, "I never want you to...to leave...."

This was why he hated crying; it was too fucking hard to talk.

They were way out of any normal context, but what happened next had to be a fucking miracle: Casey moved infinitesimally and leaned into Zeke's shoulder. Zeke closed his leaking eyes and offered thanks. He didn't believe in anything like a god, he was projecting emotions of gratitude at the void or the clouds or some dimensional anomaly for all he knew. The tears, he let be. Hadn't scientists discovered that tears actually contained chemicals that were produced by stress and that tears were therefore a release of stress which was why the damned things just had to get out sometimes?

"Shouldn'..." Casey mumbled.

"Case?" Zeke swiped his free hand across his moist face.

"Shouldn' touch...s-so dirty..."

"Case..."

"Lied–to-to--S-Sash.." Casey's voice, which had been monotone and flat, began the final unravelling. He had succumbed to a dazed, exhausted flow of tears. "‘s mad...he's...hates...never f-forgive m-me..."

"Sasha's very worried about you, Case. He's coming to visit you, that's how much he doesn't forgive you." Zeke found renewed purpose. "If you're thinking that Sasha or I don't want you around... you're so wrong. You might be planning to–to leave us and I won't have that, Casey. I'm going to be watching you. If you try it I'll stop you, I swear it, and I'll kick your ass. I'll never let you leave me."

Zeke found that he was clutching Casey to him, not caring if Casey was getting the words as long as he was getting the message.

"You're going to get better, Casey. I promise, this time. I'm making it my mission and you know I don't fail."

He held Casey's slight body against his chest for a good long while before beginning the task of prying Casey out of the stall. It was slow and careful progress, steering him out of the diner with both arms around him. Casey alternated staggers with stiff, trembling little steps. The physical discomfort must have brought him halfway back to reality, for he showed awareness of the gawkers, hiding his face against Zeke as they passed them. Zeke sketched the faces for future reference. Anne followed them out, displaying what appeared to be honest concern and dismay, and Zeke made another mental note to send her some flowers. This scene could have been a lot uglier if not for her willingness to face down her boss.

Almost at the car, Casey's legs buckled; Zeke braced him firmly with an arm. He would not pick Casey up, he would not carry him. These people would see Casey walk to the car, just as he had walked out of the high school gymnasium after he saved their inconsequential lives. Still, it was necessary to help Casey fold himself into the car, coaxing him to bend at the middle and lifting his legs in for him. Zeke marched around to the other side, sparing a hostile glare for Jerry, a little self-indulgence.

He slipped the key into the ignition, carefully controlling the shakes. Okay, then. Guilt, get over in that corner. Jealousy...I don't even want to see you, get out of my sight. Wounded pride can stick around but only as long as he behaves himself. Anger...you have your uses. You will be channelled and unleashed as needed to achieve specific ends.

At Herrington General Emergency Department, Zeke began to be a bit more satisfied with his performance. One-handed, he interacted with the receptionist and took the forms that needed to be filled out while Casey was maintained within the circle of his left arm. He turned Casey around to put him in one of the waiting room chairs, and it was then that Casey's head jerked slightly and he apparently realized he was somewhere he didn't want to be. He tried to pull out of Zeke's hold and said querulously, "No."

Zeke propelled him forward with a close grip on his upper arm. "Sorry, Case."

"No," came the refrain, this time accompanied by short, panicky breaths. Casey was tugging mindlessly, and quite ineffectually.

Zeke released Casey suddenly, leaving his body swaying in place. He said, "You're welcome to try to leave. All I have to do is wait until you pass out, which shouldn't be very long at all."

He didn't exactly get the result he wanted. Casey did give up his frail opposition; he turned away from Zeke, stumbled to one of the plastic chairs and curled despondently in it leaving Zeke crushed by self-reproach. Casey behaved as though he had been betrayed, and Zeke wasn't so sure that he hadn't been. Not that there was any choice about it. They were both fucked; Casey needed professional care and Zeke's head was already buzzing with strategies to prevent certain outcomes that were nearly unavoidable now. What price would the citizens of Herrington exact as penance when Casey admitted himself as the lunatic they had always suspected and wanted him to be?

It was not a busy morning in the Emergency Department, and at least half of the medical personnel had recognized Casey and Zeke. After a short wait they were shown into an examination room. It was intended for several patients although privacy could be obtained by pulling a curtain around the bed. There was only one other person in the room, a derelict whom Zeke didn't remember seeing around town before. The guy was unconscious, so privacy wasn't really an issue.

Zeke and a nurse assisted Casey to lie down on another of the beds, propping him up on an incline. He had not made a sound since his last, feeble protest; Zeke witnessed the vigilance of an injured animal trying to keep everything in view and failing completely.

"Here's a gown," the nurse said. Casey's eyes flickered but did not quite see her, nor did he make any move to take the item. The woman placed it on the end of the bed. "I'll leave it here and you can get changed." She appealed silently to Zeke.

He nodded. "I'll help."

Unexpectedly she wondered out loud, "Do you remember me, Zeke?"

He looked at her, truly for the first time since she had come to escort them to this room. It was Shirley Dubois' mom, Shirley Dubois whom he had known since kindergarten. Mrs. Dubois. She had come to their class on more than one career day to talk about being a nurse, and also shown up on days when they needed parent volunteers so hers was a face that had been with him, peculiarly, his entire life.

"Oh, sure," he answered. Pretty lame, but that was what happened to people in these situations. Grasping for something else to say, he added, "Thank you."

She offered what struck Zeke as a rather phony smile, then turned to address Casey officially. "The doctor will come very shortly." Smooth words but her eyes stuttered, surveying a battalion of bruises and bites.

Once she was out of the room Zeke leaned over Casey and said softly, "Shall we put on their stupid gown?" He grabbed the blue-green cotton, shook it out. "I don't see the purpose except to make you feel more vulnerable than you already are...which way does this damn thing go now?"

He was anxious to avoid meeting Casey's gaze, but those eyes were capable of hitting moving targets with ease, even involuntarily. The blank stare inevitably caught Zeke as he feinted and dodged and evaded; he sagged against the bed with a fatalistic sense of where this whole scenario was going. He touched Casey's hand and appealed in silence for absolution. Maybe not now, but some day, some point down the road...

Big inhale. Pull it together, Tyler.

"Okay, let's wrap this up, Case. Here, you can put it on first then just slip your jeans–your jeans off...turn this way, that's it."

With Casey ‘s minimal help they got the gown on him and tied in the back. The next step was harder, getting the filthy jeans off. Zeke urged Casey to stand and waited for him to take matters into his own...feet. He didn't, so Zeke was forced to the act of undressing him.

"You know," he muttered, sliding his hands up under the gown to find the button and zipper. "This is ridiculous. You'd think you could help. I tell you what...I'm going to turn my back and let you finish." He turned, listened, heard the sound of denim scraping over skin. "Okay? I'm turning around now."

He found Casey standing there with jeans puddled on the floor around his ankles. He was looking dully at the floor several feet in front of him.

"Case?" Zeke put a hand on his arm and guided him to step out of the jeans; wavering, he lost his balance, tilting sideways, and Zeke grabbed him, helped him get situated back on the bed.

Zeke didn't know why, but it felt necessary: he leaned over and pressed his lips to Casey's face, kissing the side of his mouth very softly. Unexpectedly Casey fixated on him with huge eyes only inches from his, his body quieting as it had not done since the moment Zeke discovered him in that bathroom stall. Disconcerted, Zeke nevertheless grabbed at the opportunity to make some sort of difference to him; he ran the back of his hand up Casey's cheek and whispered, "It's going to be okay."

A mature, male voice interrupted. "Good morning, I'm..."

Zeke took his time moving aside. He noted a sixtyish white man in a coat.

"I'm Dr. Farrand," the man finished with only a slight hesitation at finding two males in an intimate pose. His gaze was professional, cool, no hint of distaste but Zeke felt it like a shout.

"I'm Zeke Tyler," he stated, figuring this man was going to get to know him, and quickly.

"You brought him in?"

"Yes, I'm his friend."

"Mmm..." Dr. Farrand surveyed his patient. He moved in, not hurried but casually requiring Zeke to reposition himself. "Casey? What seems to be the problem?"

The doctor's eyebrows raised slightly when time passed without a response. He went on with a simple exam, surveying the external damage. His touch, Zeke noted, was impersonal but gentle. "Looks like you've got a second degree burn here. Quite a few minor contusions...I'll ask Nurse Dubois to get you all cleaned up and bandaged, and an analgesic should take the edge off." He gave a smile that was not really needed since Casey appeared to have tuned to another station. "The burn should heal up fine with regular cleaning, bandaging and an antibiotic ointment."

"Thank you," Zeke said, and very pointedly held Casey's hand.

Dr. Farrand directed a dry, displeased look to him. "Mr. Tyler, could you leave for a few minutes, please?"

"What? Why?"

"Mr. Tyler...Zeke...Casey is entitled to his privacy."

"What are you going to do?" Zeke had a vague sense that he was not being entirely sensible.

"This will only take a moment."

It seemed to Zeke that Casey was returning the pressure on his hand just enough to get his attention. "He wants me to stay," Zeke protested.

"Very well, Zeke. Casey...I'm going to need to do a rectal exam, all right–"

"The hell you are!"

"Mr. Tyler, this is precisely why I'd rather you weren't here. But I accept that Casey wants you here so I must ask you to be quiet. This won't take long and if there's nothing wrong it should not be painful." Farrand snapped on a set of gloves.

"You're only doing this because you think he's gay," Zeke contended.

Farrand turned to him and said, very calmly, "No, Mr. Tyler. I'm doing it because I see evidence of sexual assault and if I were you I would think again before impeding this any further."

Zeke closed his mouth and digested the realization that Farrand thought it was him, that he had put those bruises on Casey, that he had burned him, had pushed him down so he hit his head, that he raped –.

That Casey had been raped--a possibility that Zeke had not actually considered. He had assumed that whatever had happened had been consensual, or at least consensual as the law understood it. Never before had Zeke been forced to process such a craven sensation as now...the urge to run away, to flee. He had to make himself stand there and hold Casey's hand and remain impassive at Casey's vacant obedience to the doctor's instructions. It was quick; Zeke saw a twist of pain across Casey's face even so. Farrand removed his hands and peeled off his gloves with a snap and a grunt, then scribbled on his clipboard for a while.

"Well?" Zeke demanded when he couldn't bear it any longer.

"Mr. Tyler, I'm sure you've heard of things like doctor-patient confidentiality." Farrand strode casually to the door, walked out and began to chat with Nurse Dubois.

Zeke performed a quick visual check on Casey and pursued the doctor. He didn't want to leave Casey alone, truly, but things were already reeling out of his control. He had to get on top of this somehow.

"...IV bolus....and please page Dr. Hoffman for a consult."

The nurse moved off to comply and Farrand began to walk away. Zeke caught up to him.

"Please. I know you have no reason to believe me but I swear to you I did not –I was not the one who did that to him. I just...I need to know what's going on."

Perhaps there was a subtle change in the man's face. "Okay. This is what I can tell you. Apart from the burn and the contusions, he is quite dehydrated and malnourished so I've admitted him for observation and a course of IV fluids. And I've called for a psychiatric consultation for reasons which I'm sure are obvious to you."

Zeke couldn't find the words to argue; as much as he feared the outcome he knew that psychiatric intervention was more than appropriate. "Is that really necessary?" was the best he could do.

"The consult? Mr. Tyler, your...friend...clearly needs help, and I have to tell you that I'm ordering a 72 hour involuntary assessment period."

"You don't need to do that, I can take care of him–"

"Zeke," interrupted the physician. "You must be realistic. You can't handle this alone and if you've been trying to up until now then you should be well aware of that fact. Now, I can see that you sincerely want to help, and you can, by sticking around to talk to Dr. Hoffman."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"That's fine. In cases like this it's important to talk to the family and friends, to get as accurate a picture as possible. His parents live in town, don't they?"

Oh, hell....he had completely forgotten..."I'll call them."

"Excellent." Farrand's face was not what he'd call friendly, but the temperature had edged up a notch. He made a move to go, to move on to another patient.

Zeke blurted, "What about the...?"

Farrand considered him at length. Finally he said, "You're off the hook, Mr. Tyler."

Standing in the hallway, Zeke repeated those words to himself. They had an unpleasant taste. Off the hook for not paying attention and not finding a way to prevent this cheap, Monday-Night-TV-Movie scenario? For being a coward? Or for making it easier for Roy to exploit Casey? Which of these was he off the hook for?

He now had to contend with the unpleasant chore of calling Casey's parents–unpleasant mostly because once they knew where Casey was they would show up much sooner than Zeke wanted them to. And then there was Sasha, who could be waiting at the train station at this very moment.

There was a payphone in the waiting room. Procrastinating, he called his voice mail first. There was twenty-two messages left last night, eight of which were Sasha in various modes of panic.

"Zeke, have you found him yet? Call me back."

"Hi, it's Sasha again. Any luck? Call me back."

"Hi...okay, I'm getting just a little bit frantic here. I'm begging...call me soon."

"Zeke, I need to hear from you."

"Zeke. My hysteria continues. You have the power to stop it, okay?"

"It's official. I'm losing my mind. I'm thinking that you've found him and you're really busy talking things through, or...something terrible has happened. Whatever it is, just tell me."

"Okay. Maybe you just haven't been able to get to your phone. I have to assume things are going to work out. I'm waiting for my boss to call me back and let me know if I can leave a day earlier, I'll leave another message."

"Well, I'm on my way tomorrow. God, please call me if you know anything. And if you do get this message, I could use a pick up at the train station in Herrington. I arrive at 10:45 a.m. tomorrow. If I don't hear anything I'll find a cab and a hotel. Anyway, I hope we'll get to meet in person tomorrow."

There were also numerous messages from Casey's parents. Zeke had to concede that Frank Connor was giving indications of being a human being; everything else aside, he did seem to care for his son. Zeke figured he owed it to the Connors to call and let them know that Casey was alive–and as much as Zeke preferred to think he was Casey's primary support, he did accept that Casey probably would want his folks around for the long haul. So Zeke called them, and endured the predictable outbursts. He informed them that Casey had been admitted to the hospital and that there was a possibility of a longer stay but did not mention the psychiatrist. He would break that one to them when they came through those doors in person, which would be shortly.

His next task was to call Sasha and put his mind at ease–but he then observed a tall man exiting the examination room where Casey was resting. Zeke hurried to catch him. "Hey..."

The man turned around. Dark, curly-haired and bearded, he bore a bit of a resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He was even taller than he had seemed at a distance. "Are you Casey's friend?" he asked. He owned a deep, mellifluous voice, quite professionally appropriate.

"Yes, I came in with him. Zeke Tyler."

"Ah, good, I was just going to look for you. I'm Dr. Hoffman. Can we talk for a few minutes?"

Zeke glanced at the door the doctor had just come through.

"Casey will be asleep soon if he isn't already," Hoffman said reassuringly.

"He isn't asleep, though?"

"His eyes were at half-mast just a minute ago. It's all right..." Hoffman presented a comforting smile to accompany the voice. "He's comfortable and we won't go very far...there's a small meeting room down the hall, how about that?"

"Okay," Zeke acceded reluctantly, still looking at the door.

"You can take a quick look if it makes you feel better."

Reason and logic being on the backburner, it did help. Casey was indeed asleep, hooked up by IV to several bags filled with clear liquid, his right hand lying limp at his side. The gown he was wearing was short-sleeved, so Zeke could see that someone had cleaned and bandaged his burn, and presumably tended to his other hurts as well. There were a couple of blankets covering the rest of him–so he was warm, which was important. Altogether satisfactory if not awe-inspiring; Zeke accepted that he could leave Casey alone for the time being.

Hoffman ushered Zeke into the meeting room and waited for him to sit. Without any warning, reason and logic fizzled and he was all about his emotions. Annoyed at himself, he sat on his hands, denying his inner turbulence. This was no time to get flaky; he had to be–how'd it go?--calm, adult, persuasive, charming if at all possible.

"My name is Dr. Hoffman," the man began. "I was asked by Dr. Farrand to consult on Casey's situation. I take it you're a good friend of his?"

"Yes," Zeke said, and heard his voice quaver.

"Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Yes." Ah, he sounded steadier now.

"How has Casey been lately?"

"Let's see...he doesn't eat, sleeps all day, barely talks and cries a helluva lot. Your basic definition of depression."

"I see you have some knowledge of the disease."

"I read a lot."

"Then I'm sure you know what's going on here, Zeke. I've been asked to determine whether Casey meets the criteria for a three-day involuntary hold. Dr. Farrand thinks he does, and I have to tell you up front that I agree with him based solely on what I've seen in the last ten minutes."

"You talked to Casey?"

"No, he didn't speak to me, but I saw enough to conclude that it is in Casey's best interest. He is decompensated to the point that if he is not hospitalized he will very likely get hurt–even more hurt than he is now. Physically, he's in pretty rough shape. I would guess he stopped eating and drinking a few days ago. The 72 hours gives us a chance to get him hydrated and start pumping some nutrients into him, for a start. I would like to know more, though, which is where you come in, Zeke."

"I want to help," Zeke said, as noncommittal as he could be.

"You aren't opposed to this then."

"Would it matter?"

"Not unless you had his power of attorney. Casey is legally in our custody for the next three days. As he has reached his age of majority he could fight it himself but it's unlikely that he would be successful, and certainly unlikely that he could initiate and resolve any legal proceedings within that time."

In other words, there was no way out. If they had been anywhere but in Herrington, Zeke would have signed the committal order himself–not cheerful about it, but he knew that for Casey this had gone far beyond healing with hugs. "His parents should be hearing this too."

"I'll explain it to them. I'm afraid I'm making this sound scary but it's not, Zeke. I'm sure that you've been very worried about Casey, and the purpose of these three days is to see what we can do to help."

"But you're also going to decide if you want to keep him in."

"I won't lie to you, Zeke. I don't think three days will be enough. While he is in the hospital he will be assessed by the doctors and nurses there–and they will no doubt interview you and his family as well. The ideal scenario would be for him to decide to stay voluntarily–but let's cross that bridge when we come to it." Hoffman wrote some things down on his clipboard. "Have you observed Casey try to hurt himself, or say that he was going to hurt himself?"

"Er...not the way you mean."

"Can you expand on that?"

"Well, you're right that he hasn't been taking care of himself. He barely eats...he's been letting himself get hurt."

"I see." Another note was made. "So he's been pretty withdrawn?"

"Yeah." Zeke chewed on his lip, trying to decide how much to tell the man and concluding that whatever he held back they would find out anyway. "He dissociates all the time."

The dark eyes pinned Zeke. "You know that term?"

"I wanted to understand what was happening, so yeah...I was curious and I read up."

"Hmm." Zeke waited for the psychiatrist to ask him why he hadn't gotten Casey some help sooner since he had so much insight into his situation–but the question didn't come. "When does it happen, the dissociating?"

They were rapidly approaching the sticking point. "You have to understand that a lot of crappy things have happened to him, all the way back to high school. He got bullied a lot and...there was some other stuff," Zeke ventured, dropping the bait.

The man did not so much as nibble. Either he didn't know about Casey's history or he didn't care. "Like what?"

"Bad stuff."

"I get the feeling there's something else you want to tell me."

"No."

"Well, that's your call. Of course you will probably get a chance to talk more with the doctors in the hospital and they will want to get into a bit more detail. My concern right now is protecting Casey from himself."

Hoffman rose to his feet and so did Zeke.

"What happens now?" Zeke asked.

"He'll be transferred to Whitby Psychiatric Hospital. It's only an hour from here and you'll be able to visit. Are his parents around?"

"Yes, they should be here any minute now. I...I could explain it to them if you want."

"I don't expect that of you, Zeke. Whether or not they are his legal guardians I consider it my responsibility to help them to understand."

Hoffman offered a hand shake. Zeke accepted it, feeling obscurely like he had just sold Casey to him.

They walked back to Casey's room and found that his parents had arrived. They were standing both on one side of Casey's bed, watching forlornly as he slept. Frank Connor saw Zeke first, and Zeke was taken aback by the expression of parental remorse and misery he found looking back at him.

"Mr. and Mrs. Connor? I'm Dr. Hoffman..."

The psychiatrist took them away for a chat. Zeke planted himself in the visitor's chair beside Casey. He figured it was time to get to work on his magnum opus, a piece titled "Self-Recrimination", and he did get off to an energetic start. The next thing he was aware of, though, was blinking sleepily and lifting his head off the back of the chair. It was Casey's parents entering the room that had startled him from his exhausted doze. A glance at his watch told him he had nodded off for about a half an hour.

"I need to talk to you." The voice of Frank Connor was much too loud for a hospital room. Zeke looked anxiously over at Casey, but he only stirred a little, his sleep barely disturbed. They had probably given him a little something special in the IV, Zeke realized. "Privately," added Casey's father.

Zeke traded a look with Allison Connor; she looked down and away. "Okay," he replied, keeping his voice as polite as possible, not because he gave a damn but because he gave a damn about Casey. "I could use a smoke. Did they say when they would be transferring him?"

The father's mouth tightened; the mother looked teary and replied, "The doctor–Hoffman–he told us an orderly would come and get him ready in a little while, once they've found a bed for him...at that other place."

They ended up going out of the hospital, to the ambulance bay. Zeke found a rail to lean against. It was a relief to find that it was still just any other day outside the hospital–still summer, still hot. The air was limp and stifling, but hung with a muggy glow that seemed partly constituted by nostalgia...summers past as a child, riding bicycles, getting skinned knees. That was when everything felt okay; how old would he have been then? Certainly no older than ten. Yep, this was one of those moments when lighting a cigarette felt truly meaningful--a fuck-you to all that was decent. "What did you want to talk about?" he wondered, when Connor didn't seem to know how to start.

Without qualifiers, Casey's father demanded, "What happened?"

There was accusation there. Zeke dampened the flare of guilt and replied, "When exactly?"

"Last night, for a start."

Zeke was not about to share any details of his and Casey's relationship, nor was he going to describe to Frank Connor how his son had been so desperate to feel something real that he had let himself become a sex toy for a sadist. "I don't know. He didn't tell me."

"But the doctor must have."

"No. They have this whole confidentiality thing, you know."

The face of Frank Connor was getting increasingly red, Zeke noted with an absent fascination. Was that a sign of an impending aneurysm by any chance? "I just...can't..." sputtered Casey's father. "I don't know how this happened."

Zeke decided not to comment. The line left too many openings, and as helpless as he was in this situation the one thing he could do would be to minimize any strife between himself and the Connors.

"What I want to say to you..." Frank cleared his throat. "It's...we don't want you to say anything to any of these doctors about...that business in high school."

Zeke sucked back on his cigarette and blew a long plume of smoke out his mouth and nose. "Which business is that?" he said with what he thought was admirable calm.

"You know...the alien thing."

"The alien thing," he echoed.

Frank dropped his voice. "I don't want them to lock him up." His fear was real, to all appearances. "I'm just praying that Casey doesn't say anything about it."

The first wave of anger had passed; Zeke had similar fears after all. "Did you ever believe it happened like we said?" he asked, truly curious. He was beginning to develop a theory that those who had been taken over–which had to be everyone in town–had this amnesia about it caused by neurological shock, or some other equally mundane scientific explanation. For them the control had been complete, the trauma relatively minor. The problem after it was all over was five students who insisted on telling their perplexing little account of alien invasion to the world, and one of them in particular who went from outcast to hero and then back to outcast. They needed an accounting, they needed to reconcile it, and now they had their scapegoat in Casey.

With folded arms the older man replied scornfully, "Of course not."

"But you were there. They had you, didn't they?"

"For Christ's sake!" Frank grabbed Zeke's arm and Zeke let him get away with it. "That's just the kind of stuff I'm talking about."

Zeke casually removed himself from the man's hold. "Look," he said. "This is pointless. Everyone here knows about it and has their opinions. If it makes you feel better, I have no intention of bringing it up–for the time being. But I will have to say something at some point because there's really no way to escape the fact that it happened."

"Something happened," Frank argued. "Something sure happened to him, but not aliens for Christ's sake. If you just leave it alone Casey still has plenty of problems left. He should put that whole alien business behind him, whatever it was. I don't want to think about it, I just want to see him get better." Frank Connor sighed. "It was that man, that Roy. Casey just has to get over him."

The ignorance, the sheer, brutal simple-mindedness of this speech left Zeke breathless–but it raised a very authentic conundrum. Was it possible, and was it even advisable, for Casey to put aside everything having to do with aliens and cope with the rest of his life? Zeke feared that the alien business was all through everything about Casey, woven around his soul and his brain so intricately that it couldn't be extracted without killing the host.

In either case, arguing about it with Frank Connor was a waste of atoms. Zeke finished his smoke and said, "Well, I agree that he has to get over Roy."

This seemed to satisfy Casey's father. He sighed quite obviously.

"Mr. Connor? I don't want to offend you– Case, if you needed any proof that I care... "–but are you okay with the cost of this? I could help if...if you needed me to."

Not unexpectedly, Frank Connor puffed up a bit. "I can take care of my son. I have insurance. He's covered as long as he's in school."

"I was just asking."

"What are you...rich?"

"Kinda, yes. My father is a tax lawyer, you know." Jacob Tyler had an abacus for a heart, but he did know how to raise a child to be fiscally secure.

"Oh...right. I remember that. And you would pay Casey's hospital bills?"

Why had it never occurred to him that this was the way to win over the parents? Not that it was Zeke's priority. "Hospital bills, tuition, whatever he needed."

"Why would you do that?" asked Connor. Not exactly suspicious, but not entirely trusting his motives either.

"Because he's my best friend."

Casey's father's eyes narrowed. "Not just friends, though."

"No," Zeke replied calmly. "Not just friends."

He saw questions and accusations and little petty comments bubbling just below the surface but Connor did not release any of them. He was trying, just like Zeke was trying.

When Zeke got back to the examination room he found Mrs. Connor standing outside in the hall, and he could see through the small window set in the door to the room that Dr. Hoffman was in there, talking to Casey. Casey's eyes were pointed in the shrink's direction but other than that there was no indication that Casey was actually hearing him.

They did not have to wait in the hall very long. Hoffman came out and shook his head once, regretfully. "I told him what is happening, where he's going. That's all I can do."

"Will you be at the hospital?" asked Mrs. Connor.

Hoffman smiled. "I'm sorry, no. I have a practice in Herrington and I consult at this hospital but I only go to Whitby if one of my patients goes there. But don't worry, Mrs. Connor. It isn't like in the movies. It's an excellent facility...clean, new and the doctors and nurses are very caring. He'll be in good hands."

Zeke poked his head in the open door as the others were speaking. Casey was lying on his side facing the door now, his knees pulled up and his hands curled against his chest. It was such a quintessentially Casey posture that Zeke felt an ache in his throat. Casey was still there even if Casey himself didn't know it.

"Hey, you're awake," Zeke said brightly, and winced at himself. He came into the room. Casey's gaze did not shift at all. Zeke considered Casey's hands, how he might be received if he tried to hold one. Tentatively he came to it, extending his own hand and stroking along the side of Casey's left as it was the most accessible. "Can I hold your hand?" he asked, hoping it might trigger something.

Just when he was sure that nothing was going to happen, Casey's hand moved slightly, curved around his just the tiniest bit. Zeke sat down in the nearest chair, morphing the touch into a firm grasp. He started to talk.

"I suppose the doctor just told you...the news. I don't want you to worry, Casey. Just think of it like a long weekend in the country, a chance to get rested and, er...I'm going to pick up Sasha at the train station later and we'll come and see you first thing." He realized that the Connors were standing behind him, hearing every word, watching him. Pointedly he lifted Casey's hand and kissed the back of it. "So we'll be visiting later today, and tomorrow and–you get the picture." He held Casey's hand some more, not wanting to let go until Casey gave some indication that he saw him or heard him.

Nurse Dubois came bustling into the room just then with a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the lost and found, wanting Casey to get dressed. She politely asked the rest of them to leave and pulled the curtain. Zeke and the Connors stood out in the hall and didn't look at each other. Then the curtain was pulled back and Casey was sitting on the side of the bed, still rigged to the IV, wearing clothes that were much too big for him. His head was hanging, eyes surveying the distance. An orderly whizzed in pushing the wheelchair that was to deliver Casey to the ambulance and thence to Whitby. The man was huge, but very gentle. Even so, letting him take Casey was one of the hardest things Zeke had ever done.

Suddenly Zeke had nothing to do. It seemed like he should follow the ambulance out to Whitby and then trail behind as the staff got Casey settled and processed, but that was ridiculous and fairly pointless. So he drove around town for a while. He dropped in at the bookstore and picked up several books–two for himself on depression and post-traumatic stress, and a few he thought Casey might like when he was up to it. The American Film Institute's Top 100 and another book by Roger Ebert that was more anecdotal, about Hollywood culture. He stopped for lunch–not the Jam, he wasn't feeling ready to go back just yet--and called Delilah to fill her in. Five of the twenty-two messages had been from her. Not surprisingly, she wanted to visit Casey right away but he convinced her to wait a day or so.

He spent a terrible afternoon. Despite Hoffman's reassuring words, every bad movie image of mental hospitals and Nurse Ratcheds foamed and frothed in his mind. He imagined that while he was lying back at home being bored, Casey was being strapped down on a bed, screaming for him, plugged with some horrible drug that would take away all hope for the return of his own, original self while his screams were lost to uncaring or sadistic institutional ears. Or something not so farfetched–at this very moment doctors were diagnosing Casey as psychotic or schizophrenic and getting the legal papers ready to make the hospital his home indefinitely. This despite Zeke's well-informed and rational mind that had a reasonable degree of faith in the good intentions of the psychiatric profession. He knew that in this day and age people were not branded as schizophrenic because of one silly, harmless little hallucination when they were sixteen–right?

The recriminations that had been held at bay by sheer exhaustion were now crowding in. Every moment--since he had walked into Casey's bedroom a month ago and saw that things had gone terribly wrong for Casey over the past two years--was being replayed and analyzed. He thought of a hundred thousand things he could have said or done but hadn't. Then that wasn't enough; he went back to high school, the aliens and even before that. Maybe it would have been sufficient if, just once, he had got in between Gabe's fist and Casey's face.

The appointed hour to pick up Sasha from the train station came not a moment too soon.

"Fuck me, it's hot!" were Sasha's first words to Zeke, who hadn't expected this tall, elegant man with an almost aristocratic face, wearing designer jeans and a shirt that despite the heat still looked freshly pressed. At least the guy was sweating; it was still ninety despite being the dinner hour. In fact, the thought of eating anything except watermelon or popsicles was close to nauseating. Sasha moaned unhappily as he got into the stifling car with its black interior.

"I told Casey we'd run out to the hospital to see him as soon as you got in," Zeke stated. "Is that all right with you?"

"More than," sighed Sasha.

"I should warn you...it's a psych hospital."

"Oh," said Sasha heavily after a bit of a lengthy pause.

"There was no way around it," Zeke began to explain.

"No, don't. I mean...I understand." Sasha massaged his neck for a bit. "He told me he was tired," he said finally. "The last time I talked with him. He must have said it four times. What did he do? How badly was he hurt?"

"Scratches and scrapes. Nothing major. Overall he's just kind of debilitated so they've got him on an IV."

Sasha said, surprised, "He didn't try to kill himself?"

"Well...no. Not as far as anyone knows."

"I was sure he was going to, and that was why..."

"No," Zeke repeated firmly.

"Was he with Roy...shit, is it still only last night?"

"I don't know...I think so. He was definitely with someone."

Now that the first tidbits of necessary information had been exchanged they sank into a silence that got deeper every second. Fifteen minutes into the drive, and Zeke was counting the highway markers.

"Well," said Sasha abruptly. "You aren't what I expected. I really expected to find a kind of Ohio farm boy a la John Wayne." Sasha gave him a grin that seemed purposefully intended to infuriate and rattled on, "I am quite happy to be wrong, mind you. Actually, come to think of it I don't know what I expected."

Zeke asked a question that had been on his mind. "What about Roy?

"Roy?"

"What is Roy like?"

"Oh...you haven't met him, have you? Of course, he would just slither in and out of town without being seen."

The anger at Roy was palpable. Zeke figured they could build a relationship on that.

"Roy...well, he's just too damned good looking. Sort of a cross between a young Jimmy Stewart and an older Hugh Grant above the neck and below the neck...whew! And then nature had to go and gift him with more natural charm than any one person could need..." Sasha put a hand on Zeke's arm. "Hey, but don't you worry, sweetcheeks. You give him a good run for his money."

"Gee, thanks," Zeke said dryly.

"I wouldn't want you to feel insecure. No way you don't kick Roy's ass in the brains and character department."

The man had a real gift for digging himself deeper.

"You're really not liking me now, huh, Zeke? If it helps, Casey didn't like me much at first either. He got over it, though." Sasha cleared his throat. "So...where am I staying? I was hoping I could crash with you. I'm afraid I'm pretty short on cash or I would go to a hotel."

"Yeah, okay," Zeke allowed. "How many days are you staying?" Sasha had brought two rather large suitcases with him. A lot of clothing for a brief visit.

"I like your directness, Zeke. To tell the truth, I can stay for as long as you can stand me."

"I thought you were working..."

"I quit. Um...actually, I was more fired than quit. The bastard wouldn't let me miss another shift even though I baked him the best fucking bread that he ever swallowed whole with a pound of butter on the side--but anyway. The upshot is I'm free to visit now."

Zeke struggled to process that. He supposed the length of Sasha's stay would depend on Casey. If Casey wanted the guy around, Zeke supposed he would tolerate him.

Suddenly they were in the hospital parking lot. Clearly nervous, Sasha asked, "What should I expect, Zeke?"

"I don't know," Zeke admitted.

The facility was so new it practically glowed, surrounded by verdant lawn and flower beds that were almost too bursting with colour to be real. There were people about, a few who appeared to be staff in the company of patients. Sasha and Zeke presented themselves at reception and were directed to Room E4780. Zeke had half-expected an armed escort–and he didn't see naked screaming psychotics or mental defectives populating the halls either. All was very quiet and clean, and not nearly as sterile as it could have been. Zeke noted that the East Wing opened onto a sort of courtyard, a park to all appearances. He liked that.

The door to E4780 was open. Peering in, Zeke saw something not unlike a dormitory room. Two sets of furniture, two beds; if the one had an occupant they weren't here, and the other was Casey's. He was still–or again–asleep, wearing the sweats from this afternoon and rigged up with the IV. Zeke noticed a small suitcase sitting beside one of the visitor's chairs; Casey's parents must have brought him some clothes.

Sasha made a little sound in his throat and picked up his feet, hurrying over. Zeke trailed just behind, assessing the room. It was not unpleasant. There was quite a large window, overlooking the courtyard Zeke had seen earlier. A small, round table sat under the window with a few chairs placed around it, and the artwork on the wall was not your usual sort of inanity. Zeke's greatest fear was seeing Casey treated like he was stupid, or anything less than extraordinary.

Finally Zeke was assessing Casey, whose general colour seemed a little better than it had been earlier that day. But all the physical damage was even more spectacular in species and number than Zeke remembered.

"God...he's a disaster," Sasha whispered.

"And there's a lot more to see," Zeke muttered. "All over his body."

"H-how? No, don't tell me...Roy...fucking Roy."

It was very nice of everyone to put all the blame on Roy, to Zeke's mind. He knew the truth and it wasn't pretty. Which was not to say that he wouldn't have turned Roy into blood pudding if he had the chance.

A nurse appeared on the other side of the bed. Tiny and cheerful, she said, "Oh, hi there. Friends?"

They nodded.

"He's been sleeping almost the entire afternoon, but he really should wake up and eat some dinner soon. I'm Allie, by the way."

"Sasha."

"Zeke."

A slight noise alerted Zeke; he looked down and saw that Casey's eyes were open and he moving a little but tentatively, evidently stiff and sore.

Allie said, "Oh, he's awake! Such beautiful blue eyes, we really were wondering what colour they were. Casey, my name is Allie, and I'm going to get you your dinner now. Your tummy must be really empty–I'll be right back."

Sasha immediately squatted down to eye level. "Hi, kitten," he said.

Casey stared openly at him, a slight crease between his forehead.

"I know, you probably think I'm a nurse in drag since you're more used to hearing me shout nasty, judgmental things down the phone at you. But it's me, really. I'm here to visit, for as long as you can stand me."

The stare didn't ease any; in fact, it grew wider, and a little moist. Casey appealed to Zeke for something, fighting to get upright. When Sasha tried to help he was rebuffed by a violent flinch which devastated him if the look on his face was any indication. Zeke pushed in, forcing Sasha to step aside for the moment.

"Can I help?"

A nod; a wince of pain. Zeke was not proud of the pleased feeling that welled up inside him and was careful to hide it...he wants me, not you...so there! In short order Casey was sitting up, and in honest truth he wasn't looking all that trustingly at Zeke either. His stare moved here and there randomly, seeing but not understanding.

Zeke had an insight. "You don't remember," he mused. "The hospital...Dr. Hoffman?"

Thickening of emotion over a face of bewilderment – that was answer enough.

"Do you remember...talking to me at the Jam?"

Casey shook his head and clutched at his knees while salt water spilled down his face. He moved as though to pull his knees against his body but it must have hurt too much somewhere so he remained as he was, making twitchy little motions with his hands.

"You were in the bathroom," Zeke explained, thinking that Casey might like to have this sort of data, to help him put things together. "I don't know how you got there...I think you walked...you had bare feet so that's where the scratches came from. Um...before that, I don't know." He waited hopefully for all of two seconds before going on. "Anne called me and I went in and we talked a bit...you were scared..."

Casey's breath was coming shallow and fast.

"Then I took you to the hospital. The doctor checked you out. You're going to be fine, Casey, nothing permanent. You just need to rest and eat regular meals. Then Dr. Hoffman was asked to come and talk to you. I wasn't there for that part...he talked to you twice...you don't remember at all?" Zeke wanted to brush away some of the tears on Casey's face since he seemed oblivious to them himself; just as he had with Sasha, Casey flinched away from the hand.

Well, that hurt, Zeke thought idly. He shouldn't be surprised; it seemed that Casey's last clear memory of him would be from Delilah's party.

"So...Dr. Hoffman decided that it would be best for you to..." Cut the qualifiers, Tyler, and say what you would say to a grown-up. "You're here for three days, Casey. Er...this is day one."

A panic attack was for people with something left to defend–so Casey did not panic. What he did was continue to cry without a sound, like he had no hope of surviving whatever this was.

"Fuck," whispered Sasha.

Zeke concurred. He didn't know what to do. Casey had given him the hands off signal, and clearly words weren't getting them anywhere.

Unexpectedly, Sasha took charge. He crawled into the bed with Casey, ignoring his attempts to cringe away, wrapping his arms about Casey, not squeezing too hard, evidently wanting to avoid making Casey feel confined. He held on to Casey's stiff, frightened body and whispered soothing words in a steady stream like he didn't care what they were so long as they continued to wash over Casey like some topical healing solution, until finally Casey's body loosened---but he did not turn or cling to Sasha. He had not recognized a comforting touch; he had submitted to an incursion, lacking the resources to escape or even ask for his space. Sasha was not in a position to see it, spooned as he was, but Zeke could see everything. He walked away, unable to watch it.

He ended up in the hallway with the nurse and the plastic tray of food.

"Don't be distressed, dear," said Allie. "At this point they usually have a lot of emotions to get out of the system. I wouldn't take it personally."

"Right," Zeke muttered.

Allie brushed past him with her tray. "Hey, sunshine! Time to eat."

He took a few minutes to pull himself together, and then crept up behind Allie. Sasha had unwrapped himself but had not vacated the bed and Casey was sitting up, his eyes glassy. The tray was in his lap.

"I know, it sucks," Sasha commiserated. "But I promise if you eat this I'll cook carbonara for you when you get home."

The sad eyes took him in, puzzling. Zeke ached for him, for the obvious struggle to piece together the reality that was before him. He had always felt Casey was his intellectual equal, so it hurt to see that versatile mind reduced to pacing up and down a couple of narrow, dead-end corridors.

Zeke provided information, as had become his primary function. "Sasha is staying with me, Case. When you get out of here...you can stay there too, if you want."

Now the eyes were on Zeke.

"C'mon, kitten," Sasha was crooning. "You really don't want me to pick up a spoon and make choo-choo noises."

Zeke shook his head. Sasha was like an unstoppable wave of solicitude; it was too much for Casey right now. He proposed, "Casey, if you don't eat Sasha will sit on that bed and keep you from lying down for another twelve hours. The sooner you eat the sooner you can go back to sleep."

Slowly, Casey picked up the fork and began to eat–whatever the hell that mush was. After a couple of disinterested bites, however, he appeared to forget the task that he had started. Allie had been hovering, watching carefully, and she moved in. Tapping Casey's hand, she said, "Not done, sweetheart."

Casey blinked at her distractedly as though he had just noticed she was in the room.

"Oh, no, that's not going to work on me. You don't like that nasty thing in your hand? Well, it can get worse but none of us wants that. Come on, now, this will just take a few minutes..."

Listening to the nurse cajole and manipulate Casey into swallowing each bite quickly became unbearable for Zeke. He nodded to Sasha. It was time to go. He interrupted the chatter briefly to say good night and they would be back tomorrow, both dreading and hoping that Casey would beg him not to leave. It didn't happen.

Ten paces down the corridor they ran into a short, round man whose name tag proclaimed him to be a doctor. He was nearly bald on top but he wore his thin, dark hair in an obvious comb over–not the worse Zeke had ever seen but still pretty obvious. "Excuse me?" he said. "Are you folks here for Casey?"

With a sinking feeling, Zeke said, "Yeah."

The man offered a hand. "I'm Doctor Anthony Spadoni. I'll be Casey's doctor while he's here. And you are...?"

They introduced themselves. Spadoni gave Zeke a long, considering glance. Zeke returned the look with equanimity.

"Could I speak with you in my office for a moment?"

They followed him into a spacious room. One wall was lined with books, the other with degrees. Zeke made a point of reading them all. University of Oklahoma? Clarendon Community College? Ohio State Medical School? Adequate, but not inspiring.

"Zeke, do you have time tomorrow? I'd like to interview you about Casey. I'll be talking to his parents as well."

"What about me?" Sasha burst in. "I want to be interviewed too." At Spadoni's expression, he explained, "I have a lot to say."

"We generally want to speak with those who have been seeing what's happening to the patient recently, people who are close to him."

"I am close!" Sasha protested. "Up until he came home this summer I was with him almost every day–for two years!"

"I didn't realize," the shrink allowed. "Tomorrow afternoon? Good."

"Doctor," Sasha asked suddenly. "Why is Casey so...he doesn't seem to know what's going on."

Zeke clenched his jaw.

"I haven't had an opportunity to fully assess him yet, but I have looked over Dr. Farrand and Dr. Hoffman's notes from the Emergency Department. It may have a lot to do with his physical condition, actually. He was basically starving, Sasha, and that and the dehydration would definitely account for his disorientation. I wouldn't be surprised if he were much better tomorrow. I know that it is distressing to you as his friend."

Sasha's eyes got watery. "Yeah," he said softly.

"I promise we are doing our best to make him feel better, Sasha. Now you should go home and get a good night's sleep and don't worry about Casey." When Sasha snorted in disbelief. "I know. Of course you'll worry. But I mean he'll probably be sleeping too so don't fret about not being here right now."

"Let's go," Zeke said abruptly. If he didn't get out he was going to punch somebody.

They did not speak as they walked out together, by silent and mutual agreement, and then when they were in the car heading back to Herrington, the silence stretched and mutated.

"‘Kitten'?" Zeke wondered out loud, when he couldn't take it anymore.

Sasha shrugged. "It started as a kind of a joke and it just got to be a habit."

"What was that about, anyway?"

"What was what about?"

"You demanding an interview and asking Spadoni what was going on with Casey."

"Is there something unreasonable about that? I just want to make sure nothing gets missed."

"Nothing's going to get missed."

"I don't want to offend you...."

"Go right ahead."

Sasha folded his arms. "I wouldn't want to find myself with no roof over my head, would I? And besides, I'll talk to the doctor tomorrow and tell him my view of everything...so there's no need for me to tell you--that I think you're controlling and arrogant, and that you've been cruel to Casey, and by the way he's a lot worse than he was when I last saw him so you'll forgive me if your promises don't exactly fill me with confidence."

"You don't want to start that comparison."

"Which–what comparison?"

"Of who's been the better friend."

A solid hit. The guy had proudly proclaimed to have seen Casey every day for two years. He must have realized what was going on.

"All I'm saying," Sasha resumed shakily, "is that I've been close to him for a while."

"Well, I've been his friend since high school."

"Oh. He did mention he knew you in high school. He also mentioned he had no friends."

Straight to the mark. Zeke had seen that coming easily, though. "We went through something major together, something you couldn't understand. We've had a connection ever since then."

Zeke waited as Sasha processed that statement, waited for him to realize that he had something with Casey that trumped any comeback of Sasha's. What would he say? I see your alien invasion and raise you a near-death experience...

"Something major..." Sasha mused out loud. Disappointingly, he seemed to have forgotten they were arguing. "You're not talking about...?"

"Yeah, I'm talking about, and to be completely blunt, Sasha, I don't want you to go telling this shrink that on top of everything else Casey had some sort of meltdown in high school and started seeing aliens. They'll figure he's kind of always been crazy, especially when they hear the whole Roy saga...you see the picture I'm painting?"

Sasha seemed to have nothing to say. Zeke took his eyes off the road and glanced over to see that Sasha was staring at him.

"So you're saying..." Sasha began.

"It happened, it fucking happened, and there are five of us who knew it happened."

"I...I don't know what to say."

"But you believe me?"

"I don't know," Sasha admitted. "But...if it happened to you too, why don't you tell them that?"

Sasha was not to be underestimated. "I would, I swear I would if I thought it would help. But I'm afraid it would actually make things worse. Everyone here still doesn't want to believe it happened so they could just see it as further proof that Casey's crazy–and dangerous crazy."

"I don't see why."

"Because he got other kids to believe him. He'll be Charles Manson."

"Oh, really..."

"There were people unaccounted for at the end, Sasha. People missing and presumed dead. "

Sasha chewed nervously on his bottom lip. "Isn't there a way to just avoid getting into the topic?"

"I wish there were. But this is Herrington. Everyone goes around acting like nothing happened, but it's always there, in the back of everyone's mind, wanting an explanation--"

Sasha understood. "--and now they have it."

"Exactly."

"He shouldn't be in that hospital."

"Sure, except that he's really sick."

Sasha was silent, thinking. At length, he said. "Zeke, will you allow that I can be of some help to you in this? You don't have to figure it all out yourself, you know. I care about Casey as much as you. Let me help."

They passed Herrington city limits. Zeke had an epiphany then–he really hated Herrington. "I don't know what you can do," he growled to cover the tightness in his throat. Three times in one day, that had to be a record.

"Well, I know one thing."

Grilled, whole-grain mustard crusted pork tenderloin with risotto cakes and fresh string beans. Zeke hovered in the kitchen watching as Sasha efficiently seared the pork and tossed it in the oven, all in the space of ten minutes, then began the risotto. Zeke's complaints about turning on the oven had been ignored; it was past eight o'clock and the temperature was somewhat improved and Sasha was quite accustomed to working for twelve hours in worst conditions. So he told Zeke.

They had stopped at the grocery store on the way home, and in addition to the food Sasha had picked out several bottles of wine. He uncorked the first of them as a prelude to searing the meat and poured himself and Zeke a robust glass of red. Zeke didn't have wine glasses, so they were forced to use tumblers.

"I don't really drink wine," Zeke warned him. "More of a vodka man."

"Vodka is for children who haven't developed their tastes yet," Sasha proclaimed. "No disrespect to vodka."

"None taken."

"You have a fun sense of humour. Kind of dry. Casey's is like that too, although no one's seen it for a while."

Zeke leaned against the counter and sipped his wine. "I'd like to think that there were some good times, that Casey hasn't been miserable twenty-four hours a day for the last two years."

"Oh, there were good times. The first few months especially...and a lot of the first year. Something happened when Casey stayed that summer, I think. I mean, inside Casey. He got quieter and quieter and Roy was around less and less all the time." Sasha pounded the counter with his fist, just once. "I feel like a complete failure, you know? I watched it all happen and I didn't do anything."

"I know."

"Oh? I have a story for you...just an example of how crazy it got."

Recognizing a need to purge, Zeke offered, "Tell me."

"I'll just make you mad."

"I'm already mad. Tell me."

Sasha topped up his wine before starting. "This was maybe five months ago. I was making osso bucco...Roy asked me over for dinner and then of course he roped me into doing the cooking. I was just getting started when Roy announces that something came up and he couldn't stay, but he grabs Casey and takes him to the bedroom for about forty-five minutes. So here I am chopping onions and carrots and searing veal shanks and they're fucking down the hall! And at the end Roy just walks out – not a word to me. Casey comes out and plops down on the couch and starts flipping channels. So I take a break from cooking and go to sit next to him. You know about those–episodes–that he has?"

"First hand. When did that start anyway?"

"I'm not sure. All I know is they scare the crap out of me. Well, I said ‘hey' and he didn't react so I tapped him on the shoulder. He looks at me and says with the sweetest little smile, ‘hi, Sasha'. Like nothing happened. Like he isn't sitting there with this big hickey on his neck that wasn't there an hour ago."

"Damn."

"Yeah, well, you haven't heard the half of it. I'm ashamed to say it but I got really angry at Casey. I said all sorts of things about how Casey could do better and how he needs to dump Roy and get himself some therapy. Meanwhile Casey keeps flipping channels with the remote and the volume on the television got louder and louder. So I lost it, Zeke, I totally lost it. I grabbed the remote and threw it away and yelled at him that Roy was probably off planning his wedding at that very moment and then he was going to go to bed with his fiancee and...fuck, I don't remember entirely what I said. But all of a sudden Casey takes off to the bathroom and locks the door on me."

Zekecould empathize–easily. "Oh, shit."

"So I'm standing outside begging and pleading for him to open the door. And I could hear the shower running. Now I've heard that when people cut their wrists they like to do it in a nice warm bath or shower. I figured, scenario A, Casey just wants a shower and a nice private cry. Scenario B, he's found a razor in the medicine cabinet and he's in there doing himself in while I stand outside like an idiot."

"What did you do?" Zeke asked, genuinely caught up in the story.

"It occurred to me that there might be a key for the door. It's a really old building with those heavy oak doors everywhere, and there is actually a keyhole. But I had no idea where the key might be."

"Did you call Roy?"

"Eventually. But I didn't want to, you know? I knew he was with his family and Janice and he would probably be furious, but by then Casey had been in the shower for a half an hour and I had this vision of a blood spreading under the door and myself trying to explain to the cops...so I phoned. He was all fake and cheerful for the benefit of his family and I was standing there with sweat pouring down me, practically having a fit. They could probably hear my voice coming out of the phone at the other end. Finally Roy hung up on me and I was so–so--I threw my phone across the room."

Zeke laughed, not know what else to do.

"I was at the point of calling 9-1-1 to break down the door, I really was. And then the door opens and Casey comes out wearing a towel and says ‘I'm ready for dinner'. I swear, I could have throttled him right then and there. I go, ‘why did you lock the door' and he says ‘I didn't want you to come in'."

"Fair enough," Zeke commented.

"I say, ‘you do realize I've just aged about a year in the last hour' and he just blinks like it never occurred to him I was worried."

"I'll bet he didn't even hear you yelling."

"And then we sat down and ate osso bucco and watched a movie like nothing happened."

With shaking hands, Sasha refilled Zeke's glass.

"I just don't get it," Zeke admitted. "No one can possibly be so incredible that they really deserve that kind of devotion."

"Well, of course a lot of it is about Casey's issues. But Roy is very charismatic." Sasha adjusted the heat on the broth simmering on the stove and turned his attention to his vegetables. "At least, I used to find him so. He's changed. To tell the truth, I think Casey changed him for the worse."

"What? It wasn't Casey's fault--"

"I mean, few mortals wouldn't be corrupted by that kind of...obsessive attention. When I first met him he was self-centred, yeah, but he wasn't the egomaniac he is now." Chopping onions, Sasha switched the topic casually. "So...what's your story?"

"No story," Zeke replied curtly.

"Oh, I see. You're anonymous."

"What is it you want to know?"

"Why you're so testy all the time, for a start."

"I'm pissed."

"At Roy?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're pissed at everybody."

"Sasha...that's none of your fucking business." Zeke watched the other man's quick, deft motions, the way his lips were pressed together. Hell, the guy was cooking a meal for him. "I'm sorry," he said contritely. "Casey could tell you–or he would–I have a short fuse but I'm basically harmless."

Sasha raised his head and grinned. "You're far from harmless, Zeke. I think I have a bruise between my eyes from you glaring at me. You really don't like having me here, do you?"

"No–I mean yes, it's fine." Three glasses of wine and he was starting to get a mellow feeling that promoted tolerance but also made his tongue stupid. "I'm glad you're here because Casey...Casey needs you."

"He needs you too, Zeke," Sasha said gently. "You don't have to be jealous. Casey and I are just friends."

"Of course you're just friends." Zeke tried to find a tactful way to state what was bothering him.

"It's the touching, isn't it?" Sasha giggled a little. "Men don't touch each other!"

"This man doesn't," Zeke retorted. He made an effort, lowered his tone and his annoyance level. "I'm working on changing that, but it's just so ingrained." He down half of his wine. "I'll bet right now you're thinking ‘if Casey were a woman' but that's not true. I'm just like that. Ask anyone."

"I believe you, Zeke...."

"But?"

"But...I'll bet you really get uncomfortable when some of us are...over the top?"

"Since you bring it up...yes. Why do you have to be like that? I can see it's all a put on so why do you do it? Don't you know it makes people–" He stopped.

"It's okay, Zeke. Finish your thought."

"You act like that and it seems like you're deliberately trying to make people to think less of you."

"Ah." Sasha smiled widely, something Zeke had noticed he did even when it hurt. Where Zeke would shout, he smiled. "I guess I do it because I'm waiting for someone to surprise me." He picked up the wine bottle, found it empty. With raised eyebrows he asked if he should open another. Zeke nodded. He grabbed a second bottle from the counter. "Maybe I want it to be the kind of world where I can gush over things and kiss whoever I want just because I feel like it and cry just because I feel like it and just leave all my feelings hanging out where everyone can see them." So saying, he was efficiently working the cork out. "If I get ridiculed for wanting that...I have a choice. I can either act more outrageous and make them really uncomfortable, or I can stop. But I'm not going to stop–not for them, or for you, Zeke."

Sasha calmly poured himself a glass of wine, and topped up Zeke's.

"You've shut me up," Zeke admitted.

"You wanted an explanation, didn't you?"

"It's not easy to shut me up."

"I figured that out about you."

Zeke started to smile. "I'm waiting for someone to surprise me too."

"Do you know....Casey surprises me constantly."

"I know. Actually, I think he's kept me on some sort of adrenalin bender for the last month," Zeke remarked wryly.

Sasha laughed out loud, a full belly laugh.

A wine hangover was an entirely different creature. Zeke felt like his head had been wired into a vise that was being tightened very slowly. His mouth felt like a three-year old raisin. To his mortification, Sasha was already up when he staggered out of bed. The man had made coffee and was cheerfully reading a magazine. "Good morning!" he greeted Zeke.

Zeke grunted.

"Oh, you don't look very happy. I must apologize, one forgets that you're still barely old enough to drink. You project that super-mature, hard-drinking, chain-smoking thing and I forgot you're barely out of diapers."

"Shut up," Zeke muttered, staggering to the cupboard over the sink where he kept the painkillers.

"Oh, we are cranky aren't we?" Sasha put down the magazine. "Really, Zeke, I am sorry. But you know, we were doing so well bonding over the vino, I just didn't want to break the spell."

"It's okay...but I need a greasy breakfast right now."

"Um, okaaay...I won't join you but I will watch you."

The opening of the door heralded a blast of heat that made Zeke wilt. He handed the keys to Sasha. "Can you drive?"

"Yeah..." Sasha grinned from ear to ear.

Zeke waved a distracted hand. "Enjoy."

"Wow," nattered Sasha as they were getting underway. "I am so completely honoured that you would let me do this."

"It's only a couple of blocks, and it's insured."

"But I'll bet you don't let just anyone drive."

"Sure I would."

"Oh, come on. How many people besides you have driven this car?"

"At least five."

"After you bought it."

"Not as many."

"You're liking me now, Zeke. Admit it."

"No, I'm not, and I wish you would stop talking."

"Okay." Sasha hummed to himself for the rest of the trip. "Where am I going?"

He hesitated before giving directions to the Jam. What the hell...he was not going to deprive himself of his favourite restaurant for the rest of his life. Besides, he owed it to Anne to let her know that things were under control at least.

"Zeke!" Anne exclaimed as he came in the door. He winced. She came up to him, looking concerned and generally nervous. "Is...are you...okay?"

The cook and the other waitresses had one ear cocked, no doubt. "Yes, everything is okay," he said for their benefit.

"How's Casey?"

"He'll be fine," Zeke pronounced.

He thought he caught an expression of repulsion on a face sitting at one of the tables. He recognized them vaguely just before the face was turned away. He lodged the observation in the appropriate mental file and found himself a seat.

"Coffee, please, Anne."

Anne brought him a menu and a cup of the latest brew. She seemed more nervous than before. Now Zeke realized that there was a palpable aura... hostility, disgust, horror and just plain naked delight, the kind that only vicious gossips could savour. Sasha obviously felt it too; he glanced at Zeke and raised his eyebrows.

"I'll have my usual, Anne," Zeke said and whatever everyone is thinking, they are sadly mistaken if they believe I'm not going to take my time and enjoy my breakfast so they can wear out their eyeballs if they like.

"I'll have the mixed fruit with yogurt," Sasha determined, fastidious as ever.

Anne nodded and went away.

"What's up for today?" Sasha asked, blatantly making conversation.

"We're not expected at the hospital until this afternoon," Zeke mused. "I have the feeling they don't want us around there constantly."

"I hate this," Sasha said in a low voice. "I hate thinking of him out there alone even if he barely notices we're there. I would rather have him at home barely noticing me."

"I know," Zeke agreed. The coffee was not sitting well with him. Too much acid, not enough lubricant. His body was crying out for egg yolks and pork fat. And there were too many things chafing...too many people had access to Casey and there was nothing he could do about it. They could be saying things and eliciting stuff from Casey that Zeke could not control. He had to stop thinking about it or go mad. He would have a chance to speak to Spadoni today and he was going to make the interview count although he hadn't a clue just yet how he would accomplish that.

"What's going on here?" Sasha went on in a whisper, verbally acknowledging the miasma in the diner. "Is this just small-town homophobia or is there more to it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it's appalling. I might have to make a scene."

"Don't. If anyone is going to make a scene it should be me."

Sasha smiled at that.

"Anne," Zeke asked when she brought their breakfasts. "Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"Like what, Zeke?" Anne replied, extremely uncomfortable now.

"Like something that just crawled up from the sewer."

"I don't know–"

"Come on," he hissed. "I want to know."

Anne glanced around once then sat beside him quickly. "Okay. It's gotten around that you brought Casey Connor to the hospital and people have the impression that–that–um..."

"Yes-s-s?"

"They think that you and–and him–"

"Just say it, Anne."

"That you're together." She winced as she said it.

"And...?"

"Is it true?"

"Yes," he shot back, almost pleased at the expression of hurt on her face. But she could debrief with the other waitresses and her girlfriends...there had to be a reason why he had dumped Delilah Profitt and why he hadn't shown any interest in her and wasn't it a waste though? "What else are they saying?"

"Well, they heard that Casey arrived at the hospital last night so beat up that he's in intensive care now, and um...they think you did it."

Fucking Shirley Dubois' mother–okay, he didn't actually know that. There were also two doctors, and about fifty other hospital staff who could have hot-wired the rumour machine. Why should he be surprised? Hell, he was not surprised, not at all. Gay equals perverse and perverse equals violence.

Still, he had to protest a little. "But you saw. You saw he was hurt when he came in, before you called me."

"I know, Zeke."

"So why...? Never mind. I'm grateful, by the way. That you called me." He picked up his fork and methodically dealt with his meal, which was not looking quite as appealing to him but damned if he was going to give anyone the satisfaction of leaving before he had finished every last bite.

Sasha was quiet the entire time. As they walked out he handed the car keys to Zeke without a word. Zeke started the car and then he just stopped. He was paralyzed–couldn't think, couldn't reason. Without even knowing how it began he suddenly found himself beating up on his steering wheel even though it fucking hurt beyond belief. He saw through the windshield that people were still watching him, sitting in their booths watching him and their mouths moving like they thought he was stupid to realize they were talking about him. Or maybe they just didn't care.

"Can I tell you something?" Sasha intervened cautiously.

"Be my guest."

"It's relevant, I promise. I come from a town smaller than this one. Pretty working class, none of this middle-class suburban lifestyle. I came out when I was nineteen. I told my parents in our living room and I really thought they would get over it. They would be mad at first but they would come to accept it. Well...it didn't turn out that way. My sister says that my parents make like I'm dead."

"That's terrible but it has nothing to do with–"

"Yes, it does. You know it does. Maybe not everyone thinks the worst because you're gay. Some do think the worst because you're gay, and some just like to gossip, but that's not my point. My point is you can't go home, Zeke. That's where some of us get to. You can either realize it or deny it but it's a fact."

"Believe me, I'm already there."

"And what about Casey? What if he isn't there yet?"

"He left a long time ago," Zeke opined confidently. "They just dragged him back. What I have to do is figure out a way to get him out of here in one piece."

Their first stop on arrival at the hospital was again Casey's room. The visit was essentially a repeat of the previous day, with some slight variation. Casey was still mostly asleep and even when awake he would just lay there staring at the walls and not responding much. He didn't seem quite as frightened, however, which was a relief. When it was time for Zeke's interview with the shrink he left Sasha with Casey and went to Spadoni's office.

The comb over was worse today. How could a man in the mental health profession go around wearing a neurosis on his head, that was what Zeke wanted to know.

"So, Zeke." Spadoni crinkled his eyes and showed his teeth, trying to be approachable, Zeke supposed. "What's Casey been like, lately?"

"I don't know where to begin."

"You told Dr. Hoffman that Casey has been depressed. Has he said anything to you about how he's feeling?"

"Not much, it's more that he shows me. You need to know that he's been in a pretty bad relationship for almost two years, while he's been in school."

"What does he study?"

"Physics."

"So...he's fairly smart, then."

"He's very smart," Zeke professed. "School's always been a breeze for him–the academic part, anyway."

"You knew him in high school, didn't you?"

Zeke tensed. "Yeah."

"Did he show signs of depression or anxiety then, that you remember?"

"Oh, hell, yeah."

Suddenly, the angle came to him. Adrenalin made his heart leap as he realized how he could manipulate this man to Casey's benefit. He sat up straighter and tried not to look like he was plotting–which he was, plotting an entire life history for Casey

"He was always getting beat up on," it began. "And he was always alone. I think that's why this guy could get to him. He was just fertile ground, you know?"

"When you say he was getting beat up on..."

"I mean literally beat up. There was this group of jocks who would–well, they attacked him pretty much every day."

The shrink was scribbling furiously, taking down the story. "I see, and when you say Casey was anxious..."

"He was jumpy. Always looking over his shoulder. Sometimes he couldn't sleep."

"Has he shown similar symptoms lately? That you know of?"

"Well, he acts like he's been through a war sometimes. I've seen him get panicky. He doesn't like to go out, especially in large crowds. And when things get really rough he zones out."

Spadoni glanced up. "How do you mean?"

"When Casey gets upset sometimes, he just...goes away."

"How often?"

"The severe ones, not too often. But I'd have to say it happens every day. It's always happening."

"Describe a severe one."

"It was like he was in a trance. He didn't hear me, even when I shook him and yelled in his ear. I don't know how long it would have lasted if I hadn't brought him out of it."

"How did you do that?"

"Cold shower."

"Interesting..." Spadoni wrote at length.

Zeke decided it was the right time to introduce a new chapter. "There's something else."

"Yes?"

"I really didn't want to bring this up, but...are you from around here?"

"I live in Herrington, Zeke."

"So you know..."

"About Casey's claim to fame, yes. Is there something you want to tell me about that?" Spadoni tilted his head. "Wait. You were involved too, weren't you?"

"Yes, but not the way you think." Zeke's brain shifted into a gear that was close to light speed.

"You don't know what I think, Zeke."

"Which is?"

"I think I'd like to hear your story."

There was no going back now. Zeke sucked a breath and said, "There weren't any aliens. I made them up."

Spadoni stopped writing. He lifted his head and examined Zeke with hard eyes. "You made them up."

"Yes. I never intended for it to get that big, though."

"I'm listening."

"Um, you see...I told you how those boys would beat on Casey."

"Yes."

"It got so bad, I really thought he was losing it. And then Principal Drake went missing and this FBI agent came and interviewed all the students. I remember that day we were all called into the nurse's office, one by one. I remember seeing Casey that day and he was just a mess but refusing to say who had done it to him...and then when it was my turn to be interviewed I made some joke to the FBI guy about aliens abducting Principal Drake. I didn't expect to be taken seriously. Next thing I know there were more FBI and I told the story ten more times and somewhere along the way Casey became the hero of it."

Zeke watched and waited as Spadoni took this in. Believe me, he compelled. You will believe me.

The shrink spoke at last. "This is amazing, Zeke. So then the press came along and lionized Casey, took his picture, gave him all this attention, and he went along with it."

"More than that...he started believing it."

"Of course," Spadoni murmured. "Fascinating. And after...?"

"Everyone left him alone, of course, because he was this dangerous character now. So he didn't give up the fantasy and the few of us who knew the truth never mentioned it. I swear I never meant any harm by it. The press stopped coming around, so I thought it would just sort of fade away, you know?"

"I understand that, Zeke."

"I just had to tell you because I'm afraid you'll lock him up over this when he's really completely harmless."

"Zeke, we don't necessarily lock people up because they have a version of reality that's different than ours–as long as they aren't dangerous to others or themselves. But I appreciate you telling me this. I think at this point we need to be more concerned over Casey's current symptoms and there's no reason to think he can't go home in a week or two, with outpatient therapy, medication and the proper supports of course."

Zeke walked out of the interview feeling extremely pleased with himself.

He sat with Casey while Sasha talked to the psychiatrist for an hour or so. He held Casey's hand and stroked it, and had the impression that Casey noticed, and that it helped. Zeke imagined that he was seeing healing right in front of his eyes, but so gradual and subtle that it was barely noticeable. But it was happening, and he was helping to make it happen.

Sasha came back from his interview with red eyes. He muttered, within Casey's earshot, "Roy had better not ever show his face to me again."

Upon the utterance of that name, Casey suddenly looked right at Sasha. Then he looked at his hand, twined with Zeke's.

"Case?" Zeke whispered.

Sasha begged, "Say something, kitten."

Casey turned his face up and looked at Zeke. Saw Zeke. Zeke squeezed Casey's hand, silently imploring him to speak. The lips moved and even before he heard the first word Zeke was thinking no, dammit, no...I'm not going to cry again.

"Yuh..." Casey stumbled, his voice trembling, "...y-you're here?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Case." Zeke squeezed the hand in his and said fervently, "I'm still here."

"S-sorry...so sorry..." Casey was saying it to Zeke and Sasha both, his eyes filling up. "So sorry, so sorry..."

Sasha pounced, grabbing Casey and hugging him while Zeke continued to hold his hand. "Don't even...I'm sorry, kitten."

It was not pretty, to be sure. There was nothing graceful about it. Zeke couldn't bring himself to care. He ended up holding Casey's hand with both of his, hugging it against his chest as he stood at the side of the bed, bent slightly and awkwardly so that his back would hurt later but it would make him happy when he remembered, especially how Casey clung to him with his eyes and said like an invocation, "You're still here...you're still here."

On the following day, day three of the assessment, Dr. Spadoni held a conference with Zeke, Sasha and Casey's parents. "Casey has decided to stay for a while," Spadoni informed them. "Until he feels a bit stronger. Then we'll work together on an outpatient basis."

"How long?" Zeke demanded.

"We thought we'd start with a couple of weeks."

Frank Connor shifted uncomfortably, but didn't say a word.

"Why couldn't he tell us himself?" asked Casey's mom.

"Mrs. Connor, I can assure you that it isn't because he doesn't want you around. He has given me permission to share a few details so no one is out of the loop. He's still feeling extremely depressed and shaky. I've only managed to have short conversations with him at this point, and trust me, he's made the right decision."

"Was it his decision?" challenged Frank Connor in a mutter.

For once, Zeke was in total sync with the man.

"You may be thinking he's not capable of making a decision, Mr. Connor, but he is according to our definition. The right to make a decision includes the right to have poor judgment, although I don't think it is poor judgment in this case. I did tell him what I thought he should do and I'm sure he just took the path of least resistance, but the upshot is that he is a voluntary patient who can leave whenever he likes. We are not interested in locking him up–we're interested in getting him on his feet and back out into the world as soon as possible."

"But why isn't he here?" Casey's mom pressed, her throat working.

"We're trying to involve him in some of our scheduled activities, although his participation is limited right now. To be frank, Allison–may I call you Allison?–he is probably sleeping. He sleeps a lot of the day."

"I know, I kept trying to find ways to get him up..."

"And I wouldn't blame you if you thought ‘if only he would get out of bed, he'd feel better' but depression doesn't work that way. It's an illness that's physical as well as emotional. As much as we may want to tell Casey to pull himself together he simply can't, not without help."

"Drugs," commented Casey's father in a disparaging way.

"There are a lot of medications now, Frank, that can be very effective without any symptoms or side effects."

"Is he taking one of them?"

"I can tell you that he is. We won't know for at least a few weeks whether or not it's helping, though. This type of drug doesn't give you an instant, giddy feeling. It works more like a vitamin. That, combined with therapy, is how we treat the depression and the anxiety that Casey is feeling. There is no instant cure."

Mrs. Connor spoke up again. "I guess this means he won't be going back to school."

"Not this fall. In fact, it would be a great help if you could contact his college and let them know. I will provide a letter to verify that Casey is putting his studies on hold for medical reasons. Now, you mustn't feel that this will prevent Casey from finishing his degree. I have every confidence that he will recover, and then he can return to his program...perhaps sooner than you think. It isn't like we expect people to have everything sorted out before they go on with their lives–if that were necessary, we'd all be in hospitals."

Apparently this slight crinkling of the eyes and pursing of the lips was Spadoni's idea of a smile. Zeke and Sasha traded a glance, and Zeke had an idea that Sasha was hating this guy as much as himself.

"So when should we come to visit?" Allison asked.

"We have regular visiting hours, you're free to come then. Apart from that it's between you and Casey. But you mustn't expect too much or take things personally at this point, all right? If Casey doesn't look happy to see you or doesn't want to talk to you, it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with you."

"Okay," said Allison, and sniffed. Zeke expected Frank to make a noise of displeasure or annoyance, but instead he reached over and took her hand. Astounding. The parents rose from their chairs together. Frank asked, "Can we go see him now?"

"If you like."

Spadoni showed them all to the door. Zeke was about to follow the Connors to Casey's room when he received a request: "Zeke? May I speak with you privately?"

"Okay." Zeke waved off Sasha's frown. The door shut, leaving him and the shrink together.

Spadoni glanced at his watch. "I have an appointment in ten minutes, but we can chat until then." Zeke had a distinct sense that someone was trying to put him in his place. He settled himself in his chair again and waited patiently.

"Thank you for staying behind, Zeke," Spadoni said, taking his own seat. "There was something I wanted to ask you."

"Yes?"

"I need you to cut back on your visits to Casey."

"What–? No, absolutely not."

"Please."

"You don't have the right to ask me that."

"I don't have the right, but I am asking. This is important and it's something Casey wouldn't feel comfortable doing himself."

"Casey wants me around. You can't convince me he asked you to do this."

"Of course he wants you around, Zeke, that's not the issue. Or rather, it is the issue. Let me explain–"

"No," Zeke interrupted loudly. "I know what you're going to say, but Casey and I are very close. He expects me to be there for him."

"That is true, Zeke, I'm not arguing that. Now, you've demonstrated yourself to be a very intelligent, well-informed young man, so I'm going to ask you this...are you familiar with the concept of the borderline personality?"

"I've heard of it."

"All right. Now, this is a personality disorder where the person cannot maintain their boundaries in relationships. They have a pattern of quickly losing themselves, to the extent that they have no identity of their own. They put everything of themselves into another person and cling to them so determinedly that the person may get scared. The borderline's greatest fear is losing this person in whom they've invested so much, and quite often the fear becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Does this ring any bells?"

"Of course, but–"

"It's considered a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, which jives well with the things you've shared with me about Casey's high school experience."

"I understand all this," Zeke contended. "Maybe I didn't have the technical jargon but I get it. I've always been careful, I try to respect his individuality."

"But he makes it tough, doesn't he? Be honest. If you spend time with Casey, will you be able to keep him at a distance?"

Zeke growled, "Don't beat around the bush, doctor. We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

"Yes and no. Zeke, both doctors who treated Casey at Herrington General made a point of mentioning you in their notes, and so did the nurses here."

"Really."

"They observed that you are extremely protective of Casey and at the same time extremely controlling, that you filter every stimulus before it gets to him if you can. They are concerned about the nature of your relationship with him."

"That's–that's–" Zeke sputtered. "Yeah, I was being protective in the hospital, it was damned appropriate at the time! I know that fucking doctor thinks that I'm the rough trade, that those are my teeth marks on Casey but it isn't true. I told him that and I'm telling you that. You can believe me or not. Casey and I haven't even had sex, it was that Roy motherfucker–"

"Calm down, Zeke."

"I am calm, and fuck you too by the way. I'm going to come visit Casey unless Casey tells me to stop. You want to talk about autonomy? Let Casey decide who is going to visit him. Let Casey decide who his doctor is going to be when he leaves here."

Spadoni said, "There's no need to attack me, Zeke. I'm no threat to you."

"You're right about that."

"Let's say I believe you, that you and Casey don't have a sexual relationship."

"I didn't say that."

"Whatever. The problem remains. I'm going to be working with Casey and I'm going to be trying to convince him that he can be alone...but he can't learn to be alone with you around every day."

"I agree with you that Casey needs to work on that. But don't you think this is a little premature? If I disappear now it will kill him."

"I'm only asking that you back off temporarily, not disappear altogether."

Sometimes when you just weren't getting anywhere the only thing to do was to bring the argument to a close. "I'll think about it," Zeke granted, while to himself he added, In your dreams, you vain little fucker...

"Zeke, I know you think I'm trying to interfere with something that's none of my business. I'm asking you to trust me. You've been under a lot of stress but you need to accept...you can let go now."

"I said I would think about it." Zeke leaned forward so that his face was hovering over Spadoni's desk. "And in return maybe you could think about something."

"What is that, Zeke?"

"Consider that it's possible to live without boundaries."

"That would hardly be--"

"And maybe Casey was just brave enough to try it–"

"–constructive–"

"--with the wrong person."

"Well, Zeke, I'm bound to say I don't buy that. I'm a mental health professional, not a philosopher, and I can tell you that boundaries are essential to a healthy ego. Casey didn't choose to try going without his boundaries; they were systematically destroyed, and my job is to help him rebuild them. If you ever want to have an authentic relationship with him, you'll help me do that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go. "

Spadoni got to his feet. It was very blatantly a dismissal

There was anger, and then there was the kind of red-hot nuclear inferno that launched Zeke out of the shrink's office and sent him stalking the halls to Casey's room. There was no plan, no thought, only fragments of a half-formed vision of what he would do or say when he saw Casey. Seeing that the room was empty only stoked the fire hotter.

Marching up and down the corridors, ignoring the perplexed, slightly alarmed faces that flashed past him, he eventually found a visitor's lounge and Casey, sitting flanked on all sides by his parents and Sasha. He was noticeably improved today; more oriented, certainly a little stronger, able to be on his feet without wobbling. Less worse but not well, not by a long shot. Zeke didn't know what he could expect to get from him, but he appeared in front of Casey and their witnesses and demanded recognition--even though henceforth he was officially to be considered extraneous, an endangerment.

There was a look that he had come to anticipate from Casey. It was the look he got every morning when Casey showed up on his doorstep, the look when they sat on the couch together and suddenly, inadvertently, their eyes crossed paths, or when they were both mesmerized by kissing and there was one of those unplanned, momentous pauses. It was a look Zeke had considered his own right up until two days ago and the bathroom stall. The look that said Zeke was It. The Man.

Zeke spoke a word and Casey's face turned in his direction and--

--there it was, a look that had already tainted one man who had been too weak to realize that it was a very dangerous gift. Here I am, take me, it said and had said to Zeke many times over now, all the way back to that day in high school when Zeke had spirited Casey away in his car for a plate of french fries, and Zeke had been puzzling over it for three years now but he grasped the whole of it finally: I'm yours. Take me. You are the risk that I accept.

And Zeke made a decision.

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