It had to be the biggest turkey Zeke had ever seen, glossy, cookbook- perfect and surrounded by a constellation of side dishes. At the head of the table, Charlotte Rosado wore a pastel-blue apron over a cream sweater and tan slacks. One kitchen, one cook, the apron warned. Should the rule require enforcement, a set of carving knives was within easy reach. There had been no pretense of offering them to Stan, the male of the household, which was something of a relief since Zeke didn't know how he felt about Stan wielding knives, or any cooking implements for that matter. He had already resolved not to ask if Stan had helped with preparing this meal.

"I don't really do grace," Charly said. "That isn't a problem for anyone, is it?"

There was a enthusiastic head shake from Stokely and a shrug from Stan. Sasha went further and verbalized it: "Not at all."

Charly continued, "I thought instead we could try going around the table and saying what we're thankful for while I carve up the turkey. That's a nice tradition, I think."

This time she got rolled eyes and expressions of incipient panic. Zeke shot a surreptitious glance at Casey, across and two side dishes to the left of the turkey. Casey did not appear to have heard the question. He was not looking at Charly, nor at Zeke, nor anyone in the room; to anyone who didn't know him it might have seemed that the food spread out before him had all of his attention.

The home of Charlotte Rosado was an older, two-storey structure filled with what Zeke, with his limited understanding of real estate terminology, understood as "character." She'd given Casey, Sasha and Zeke a brief tour when they arrived; every room was well-turned out, adventurous but tasteful, and Sasha had been making envious gurgles and squeaks the entire way through. It wasn't what Zeke had expected from this woman who was brusque and kind of tom-boyish; he'd imagined a bachelor pad filled with sports memorabilia — and yeah, the memorabilia was there, but confined to designated areas. There was a TV room, too, containing a screen even bigger than Zeke's. Now there was a room that a boy could love, and Stan was very open in his feelings about it. They had sat in there for the hour or so before dinner was ready, engaged in the traditional Thanksgiving activities of the American male. Zeke had let himself be seduced by the soothing distraction of sports blather while obliquely observing Stokely's attempt at conversation with Casey. She hadn't gotten much out of him, to Zeke's satisfaction.

As for the room where they now sat, Martha Stewart could probably have collected royalties for it. It was an actual dining room separate from other spaces, with a large picture window spanning one wall, providing a view of two mammoth spruce trees in the front yard. It also featured an antique walnut table that easily would have seated ten. The napkins, plates and tableware were a coordinated, aesthetic whole. The walls were the colour of coffee and whole cream, hung with black and white photographs of vineyards and other conspicuously European landscapes. Zeke had seen Casey looking at them with almost-interest and wondered what had become of the photography habit that he recalled from their high school years. Maybe it had just been a phase, like Zeke's drug-making habit, but he did recall Roy's letter making some reference to Casey taking pictures so maybe there had been something more to it. Zeke resolved to ask Casey about it — that was, if Casey ever again said more to him than "Where's the pill bottle?" and "Yes, I went to my appointment."

"Cool," Stokely finally said in reply to Charly's comment when no one else had leapt to do it.

Charly favoured Stokely, who was sitting to the immediate left of her, with a smile of thanks, and then moved on along that side of the table to Casey. She said, "Casey, would you like to start?" Perhaps she was trying to be a good hostess and draw out the guest who most needed it, Zeke didn't know, but he did know he wasn't feeling particularly generous towards her right then.

Of course, Casey showed absolutely no reaction.

"Casey?" said Charly, sounding as awkward and concerned as everyone else at the table appeared. On Casey's other side, Sasha looked like he might be about to grab his strings and perform an act of ventriloquism, but before he could intervene, Stokely elbowed Casey in the side. It didn't look all that forceful, but Casey twitched and looked mutely at her.

"Um...sorry," Casey faltered. "Did you...ask me something?"

"We're saying what we're thankful for," Stokely said.

"Going around the table taking turns," Sasha supplied.

Casey squinted slightly at Stokely, as though this were a trick question.

"I'll go first," she volunteered. She tried for deliberate good cheer, tapping her fingers on the mocha-tinted table cloth as she mused aloud, "Okay...What do I have to be thankful for...?"

Stokely was wearing a white embroidered blouse, denim skirt, and an assortment of funky jewellery. With her freckled complexion and shining strawberry- red hair, she seemed restored to her original state of flourishing health. For his part, Zeke thought she looked wonderful and Stan apparently thought so too, from the way he had been ogling her. Like right now — he was wearing a calf-eyed look and Stokely did not appear to be entirely unreceptive to it as she drummed her fingers and made a show of thinking.

"Some time today," Zeke heard himself say roughly.

Stokely narrowed her eyes at him. "This isn't easy, you know."

"I'm just saying...Charly cooked all this food and it's getting cold."

"Hey, I don't want anyone to get stressed about this," Charly intervened. "You don't have to make a big speech. Maybe you're thankful for post-it notes or baseball caps. No one's grading you, I promise."

Stokely took a deep breath and began. "Right...well, I'm thankful that Charly made breast of tofu for me, and I'm grateful to be here with my friends today." She was conspicuously not looking at Zeke as she said it, implying that his inclusion in that particular category was questionable. Meanwhile, she bestowed upon Casey the majority of her visible good will.

In fact, they were all looking at Casey, staring and then glancing away, then staring again because it seemed appropriate, yet finding it difficult because he exhibited something too private and too blatant for the comfort of everyday company. Except for Zeke, who didn't care and could look forever; he had been starved of Casey for days now.

At least ten times since Monday, Zeke had been on the verge of marching into the living room and smashing through that barrier of silence. A few times, he had gotten as far as the marching-to-the-living-room part only to be captured by a stare that was somehow full and empty at the same time. Casey would keep him pinned like that for a few seconds before he released him and turned back to whatever movie he was watching at the moment. The Philadelphia Story and Casablanca — the only two DVDs they owned apart from Zeke's collection of sports documentaries — had gotten a serious workout until Tuesday, when Casey had brought home a stack of rentals after his appointments. He had carried out necessary errands around the house but otherwise he just watched his movies and didn't really speak; he would talk to Sasha, from what Zeke had been told, but not very much. Essentially, when he was in the apartment and he wasn't watching a movie, he was sleeping. He had slept one night with Sasha but otherwise he stuck to the couch. He had not been in his and Zeke's bed once since Sunday night.

It was not going to go on like this, that was what Zeke knew. He was action guy and he was going to take action. All of the waiting and uncertainty were building up inside him, and it was getting to a point where he knew he was going to crack, he was going to be doing and saying any number of things, no longer able to discern whether he was accomplishing anything or just misbehaving. Being Charly's guest for Thanksgiving was, at worst, an inconvenience and, at best, an intermission in his continuing state of crisis. He'd come here only because both he and Casey could really use a change of scenery and a good meal. He'd had a headache for forty-six straight hours now, and Casey was looking increasingly ragged. Stokely had been openly distressed when she saw him.

But Zeke had seen worse things. Late last night after he'd given up on studying and crashed, he had awakened suddenly to find a presence standing at his bedside. "Casey?" he had said, pushing himself up on one elbow.

The spectre had said nothing, staring down with hollow black pits instead of eyes. It had brushed a cold finger along his jaw, then vanished, leaving him shaking.

"Casey?" said Charly, trying yet again. "Do you want to take your turn now?"

The silence lengthened again. Zeke wished that Charly would just fucking give it up or that someone would muzzle the hostess.

"My turn then!" Sasha sang out.

Nervous relief made Zeke's tongue more sharper than he wanted it to be. "Oh, here we go," he muttered quite audibly, regretting it even as he spoke. Really, it was a fucking mystery that he had any friends at all. It was hard enough that they had to find ways to tolerate him being right as often as he was — and then he had to make it harder by acting like a cocky bugger all the time.

Sasha glared at him of course, just like he had been doing for the past three days. Zeke was enduring it without much complaint. He figured he probably deserved it and there was little else Sasha could do since neither Casey nor Zeke had told him much about what was going on.

"I'm thankful that I've been invited here today," Sasha began. "Very thankful, because I'm sure I'd be at home slaving over a hot stove right now otherwise."

"Aw..." Stokely commiserated.

"Not that I mind that much, it's just nice that today someone else is doing it. And it looks and smells wonderful." Always gracious, Sasha raised his glass of wine to their hostess. "To the cook."

Everyone quickly followed suit. "To the cook!"

Zeke joined the chorus, choking down a swallow of the dreadful crap in his glass. He knew almost nothing about wine, but he did recognize cheap, screw-cap swill when he tasted it. The flaring of Sasha's nostrils as he drank only confirmed it; apparently, Charly's good taste didn't extend to choosing a decent vintage. Zeke noted that Casey had mumbled along with the rest of them, even taking a tiny sip from his own glass. No one else would have been able to tell from his bland face that he didn't like the taste, but Zeke could.

Meanwhile, Charly had gone a rosy colour; she was not a person who received compliments well. "You're quite welcome, really," she said. "I know it's hard when you're away from family during a holiday. And I'm really sorry your boyfriend couldn't make it, Sasha."

It was Sasha who was flustered now, which was interesting. Something had to be going on with Jerry and Sasha but Zeke hadn't been paying enough attention to Sasha this week to know what it was. Flushing, Sasha replied, "Oh, you know...He has an entire clan in this city, I don't think his mother would allow him to go anywhere else without severe backlash."

"She didn't invite you to join them?" Charly wondered.

Which would be one of those out-of-the blue, not so subtle questions that were Charly's claim to infamy. Stan cringed visibly but Sasha didn't appear to be offended. "They did, but..." Suddenly, Sasha was staring meaningfully at Zeke. "He wanted to be with his family...and I wanted to be with mine."

A terrible notion seized Zeke: That he might just cry here in front of Stan and Charly and everyone else. It was an insupportable proposition. The problem was, three days could be a very long, very trying time when you were the resident criminal.

He tried to make himself like a rock or a block of wood, something inanimate and emotion-free. When he was in high school he'd honed that skill and used it every day; the trick was in knowing that this inanimate state was temporary and he really did have feelings that would be felt later. It was the promise of later that always tamed the emotions and then once he got to a place where it was safe to feel he would often discover that they really didn't require much attention at all.

"Zeke...?" Charly said with that impeccable timing of hers. "Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

He just wasn't achieving that inanimate state he wanted. The method wasn't working for him, he felt too much; he'd become too invested and now all of his faculties were occupied by the futile project of reviewing each moment that he experienced with Casey, trying to determine which were the critical ones, the ones that he could stick with the labels:

Here I made a tactical error.

Here I hurt Casey.

Here I fucked myself royally.

Here I screwed it all up.

"Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake."

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa."

"Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.'"

"Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa, I'm a little rusty on it."

"I'll hum it for you..."

The living room was filled with a wistful piano tune that was instantly familiar.

"Sing it, Sam."

"You must remember this...A kiss is still a kiss...A sigh is still a sigh...."

Grey light flickered on dark walls, just barely revealing Casey who was staring at his movie, staring at anything but Zeke. Casey's body was a defensive bundle, forbidding intervention. Zeke waited and stared and hoped but Casey gave him nothing to go on. This certainly looked like a stance of anger, but without any cues he didn't know what Casey wanted him to do.

Okay, then, he should rely on his own analysis of the situation. And then he was to make a decision and stick to it, but first, there had to be some assessment...So there was the little Sasha that lived in his head screaming Go to him, talk to him, you repressed, macho twit! but there was also logic — in which he still placed a certain amount of faith. To obey the Sasha-Voice he would have to believe that his presence was actually wanted, and he couldn't make that assumption. Because he had committed an act of violence. He had used the gifts of his mind, and the power in his hands and his voice, to pound on Casey. To now speak softly and touch with gentleness seemed so hypocritical and false that Zeke just couldn't bring himself to do it.

More to the point, if he touched Casey now he wouldn't be able to stop, and he knew intuitively that not-stopping would mean disaster.

So he went to the bedroom. He booted up the computer and opened the file that was the skeleton of his paper for Major World Religions, a comparison of Hinduism and Buddhism in all of ten pages. He had typed his notes directly from the books he was using, including relevant page numbers, and tediously put his points into the order that he wanted. That had taken quite a while, and now to turn all of this into some sort of narrative would take even longer but he was beginning to find that he could move at a reasonably good pace, using a hunt and peck method of his own devising. For the next couple of hours, his focus on his schoolwork was almost sublime in its completeness.

Somewhere along the way he decided that he was waiting for Casey to come to him. That was not punishment or manipulation, it was just practical. He was respecting Casey — belatedly perhaps, but it was never too late to try. In the meantime, it felt good to concentrate on a problem that was straightforward. Five thousand years of history, thousands of gods and goddesses with their complicated lineages and billions of worshippers had nothing on Casey Connor.

Eventually, Zeke's stomach alerted him that he was hungry. He ventured to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich, listening briefly to the music and dialogue from the other room — now it was The Philadelphia Story, which meant that Casey must have gotten off the couch at least long enough to change the disc. That thought was obscurely comforting.

Surely an offering of food would not be incorrect. Zeke analyzed that premise, and decided that it couldn't hurt. Even if Zeke had been transformed into a villain over the past several hours, certain essential matters could not be disregarded. Casey still needed to eat regular meals and to Zeke's knowledge he hadn't had anything since the waffles that morning.

He put together what he knew to be one of Casey's favourites — thin slices of cheddar cheese and tomato on white bread with real mayonnaise. It was a conundrum to Zeke but the liking of it was well-established. Coupling the sandwich with a glass of some esoteric, organic fruit blend — Sasha always bought it because he considered most so-called juice to be "glorified Kool-Aid" — Zeke resisted the urge to tiptoe into the living room. He would walk, dammit, and not cringe.

It was past dinnertime and completely dark in the room save for the light glowing from the black and white fiction on the screen and the glint of Casey's eyes. His absorption in the images did not waver until the plate landed on the coffee table before him with a gentle scrape. His eyes jerked in Zeke's direction.

"Food," Zeke stated.

Just as quickly, Casey averted his gaze from both Zeke and the sandwich. He was sitting very much as he had been before, with his hands loosely clasped around his shins. Zeke saw his hands move up towards his chest, shaping themselves into fists.

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged.

Zeke swallowed his annoyance, although it didn't go down easily. Still, it would not further his cause any if he were to snap at Casey now. "It's your...your favourite."

Fuck. He was turning into Marge Simpson.

He rephrased: "Eat it, please." That was better, he could even keep some self-respect. It was polite, but it was not a request.

"Okay," Casey said, his eyes flickering in Zeke's direction briefly.

There was no part of him that did not scream Go away, goawaypleaserightnow! so Zeke went away; he took his own sandwich to his room and ate, even though it tasted like cardboard and rubber.

He resumed working on his paper, making great progress at it. At one point he thought he heard Casey moving around in the kitchen, running water. Soon after that the apartment became silent; the movie had stopped playing. Zeke strongly suspected that Casey was asleep.

Around ten the phone rang and there was absolutely no question in Zeke's mind that it was Winona; it had to be, nothing else would epitomize the sort of bad timing that he was beginning to expect on a daily basis. He did not bother to get up, as the phone was in the living room and Casey would undoubtedly get to it first; he just closed his eyes and braced himself for more chaos — but he heard nothing at all from Casey. The phone continued to ring until the answering machine kicked in. "Hi, Zeke," said Winona's voice from the kitchen. "I was going to ask you something...but it's not important. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, bye."

Zeke couldn't imagine that Casey hadn't heard this. After several minutes of silence, nervous energy drove Zeke out to the living room to discover the state of things.

The room was darker than he had ever seen it before; he had to turn on a light in the kitchen first to avoid tripping over his own feet. The blackness continued to bother him, so he went to the window and pushed aside the curtains, letting in some light from the street. In that light, he could easily see the half-eaten sandwich, the empty juice glass, and Casey, deeply asleep. Right then he looked so endearing and peaceful that it was difficult to process the memory of his wrath earlier. Zeke found that he rather liked the paradox, although he didn't much like being on the receiving end of the wrath.

Maybe, Zeke thought, he should wake Casey and get him to go to bed; maybe that was all he needed to do to make everything okay. The thing about Casey's anger was, it was usually a brief thing that would spout and erupt all over you, and then dissipate until the next time it was ready to build itself up.

Or maybe not. The last time Casey got it into his head that Zeke had sold him out to the shrinks, his anger had gone on for days and days before it finally crested, and even though it had crashed, it was still around, fueling his reactions to this latest transgression. Zeke's mind easily foretold Casey, upon being shaken awake, looking accusingly up at him as if to say It isn't enough that you betray me to Yves and bully me and threaten me, now you won't even let me sleep?

No, he resolved to leave Casey alone until Casey gave him the sign that it was all right to approach. The least he could do was to stick to his plan — that was doctor's orders, even — and respect Casey's autonomy for once. He left Casey as he was but compromised with himself and went to fetch the afghan from the bedroom. He brought it to the couch and draped it over Casey's body, covering everything but his head, watching anxiously for any sign that the sleeping angel would wake and summon another blue inferno. But Casey didn't even twitch. It dawned on Zeke that Xanax had to be involved.

Returning to the bedroom, Zeke made a perfunctory attempt to continue working but almost immediately came to the knowledge that he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. They were fever-hot from overuse, and his legs ached from general exhaustion. He sprawled on the bed thinking to just take a few hours' break and was shocked when he woke up to daylight.

His first thought was that Casey was not where he should be. In his just-waking disorientation Zeke forgot why and how that had come about; a shot of adrenalin yanked him on his feet — at which point, he remembered yesterday. This was the first morning in many, many weeks that he had wakened without Casey's presence, and the time in the past when he had longed to have a bed to himself was so far distant that it was like thinking about some character in a story he had been reading instead of remembering himself.

He was going to go to Casey and speak to him and they were going to put this behind them. He knew Casey; he knew that Casey would not turn him away. Casey had never turned him away, no matter what he did.

He staggered to the living room. There again was the half-eaten sandwich, the empty glass, but no Casey. His next idea was to go up to the roof and look for Casey there; then a hunch sent him to Sasha's door. He pushed it open, as close to silently as he could. Casey was indeed there, curled up with Sasha, both of them apparently still asleep. However, at the slight creak of the door hinges, Sasha's eyes opened and found Zeke's. He said nothing, but Zeke did not miss the way the circle of his arms seemed to shrink, enclosing Casey firmly. And he smiled in a way that was less a friendly welcome than a showing of teeth to ward off a predator.

Zeke considered it wise to withdraw — for now. He brushed his teeth, got dressed and skipped breakfast in favour of two quick cigarettes sucked down to the filter while he waited at the bus stop.

He was late to his World Religions class, and as usual, Winona had saved him a seat. She was waiting with an expectant face that had neediness written all over it, that made him want to go and sit somewhere else. The two classes that they had together now seemed like two more than he could take. There weren't a lot of seats to choose from though, and it did occur to him that his ego could use a bit of gratuitous flattery. As he sat down she raised her brows in a momentary expression of friendly concern, then wrote to him on her note-paper Everything okay?

He nodded, his jaw clenching. The surprising thing was, he actually wanted to tell her everything that had happened since the episode in The Study last Thursday — even though he didn't expect for one moment that she would have any insight to offer. In fact, he didn't want to hear from her at all; he just wanted a pair of ears that were willing to listen to him speak about his feelings, just his feelings, all the pettiness and impatience that none of their friends would want to hear about. No comment expected, thank you very much, just let me shit all over you for a bit and don't expect me to return the favour for you because I really don't have time for it.

Sometimes, it was really hard not to hate himself, even though it was strictly against his policy.

At the end of class he got up, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible. Winona started to suggest something, an invitation no doubt, and he just shook his head. "Sorry," he added. "I have two more classes today, remember?"

"I know that, I was thinking after you were done. Did you get my message last night?"

"Oh...no, sorry."

Against his hip, his cell phone started to vibrate. "I've gotta run," he said, and did. He hurried out of the lecture hall, finding a place in the hall outside that was reasonably private to take the call.

He was expecting it to be Casey, but it was Sasha: "Talk to me, Zeke."

"What?"

"Tell me something. I'm begging you."

Zeke turned in towards the wall, muttered, "Casey's pissed at me."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine — well, relatively speaking. He's in the shower. I need someone to give me some information before I go mad, and if I go mad, you won't be far behind."

"What did he say to you?"

"Not a fucking thing. That's why I'm asking you."

"Don't hate me for saying this, but there's nothing you can do."

"Fuck that! I'm not going to sit around on my ass while my friends are self- destructing."

"We're not self-destructing, we're just having a disagreement."

"A disagreement."

"Yeah. We'll sort it out." And obviously, Casey had chosen not to tell Sasha about it so Zeke was not going to risk angering him any further. Not that he especially wanted to talk about things that were too complicated to even begin to explain, and painfully private, too. He could not see himself saying out loud, to Sasha of all people, Okay, Casey thinks his biggest problem is that he faced down an alien queen once while I'm terrified because he keeps trying to make me over in Roy's image when we have sex, and then once he has what he wants, he goes catatonic.

Naturally, Sasha was still talking, still trying. "You're killing me, Zeke. I get home last night, and by the way, Jerry wasn't exactly jumping for joy about me having to go home to check up on you two after he made me a nice romantic dinner — "

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, whatever. I get home and there's Casey drugged up on the couch, and now you're telling me it's just a disagreement."

"That's right."

"Okay, well...Does being in separate rooms strike you as a good way to sort things out?"

"I meant to talk to him, I just fell asleep. I was tired, so sue me."

Sasha was quiet for a second. Then he said, "Can you at least tell me how it went with Dr. Yves?"

Zeke sighed. "It was...interesting. " His memory alerted him to a task left incomplete and he added, "Um, Sasha? Actually, there is something you could do."

"What's that?"

"Ask Casey to phone Yves. She wants to talk to him before the long weekend, she asked me to — to remind him."

"All right," Sasha replied tightly. "I'll be your message boy, but only because it's important."

"Thank you."

"You boys are making me feel very old, I hope you know."

Zeke didn't know what to say to that. He was feeling old himself. "I just think you shouldn't have to get so involved like you were before," he suggested.

"But it's not exactly optional for me — !" Sasha's voice broke off on the last word. When he spoke next, it was hushed; Casey must have been out of the shower. "Gotta go."

The click cut Zeke's tenuous connection to home, and he had nothing else to do but finish his day; it wasn't like he felt an urge to skip his classes so he could rush home to confront Casey. It made him laugh to himself at how changed he was, that he was thinking about how he was safe from Casey at school. Zeke Tyler, safe at school, and from a science geek — the world was turned on its head.

It wasn't that he was afraid, not at all. He was anxious to get back in sync with Casey, but knowing how angry Casey felt towards him yesterday and how much more anger Casey was allowing himself to feel in general, Zeke had every reason to expect incoherence, tantrums and quakes of the sort that would make the breakdown in the desert seem like a minor disturbance.

Later that afternoon when he did step in the doorway to their apartment, he was bracing himself for emotional violence, not exactly ready to receive it but ready to endure it. But Casey was very successfully practicing avoidance on the couch; he was asleep once again, with a pile of movie rentals on the table in front of him.

Zeke made himself a pot of coffee and something to eat. He was determined to stay awake until Casey woke up, and then to have words with him. In the meantime, he got the World Religions paper more or less finished. He printed the draft of the paper, just in case Casey might ever be in a frame of mind to do the editing that he had promised, and delved into the next assignment. There was really no other way to tackle the work than to put his head down and take these things one at a time.

At some point he heard a movie start up, and his stomach started to churn. He let himself dither for no more than ten minutes before heading out to the living room.

He sat down on the chair adjacent to the couch where he could have brushed knees with Casey if he wanted, and turned on the lamp nearest to him. He saw Casey's breathing hitch and increase in speed, his hand clutching the remote tightly while he stared resolutely forward.

"Casey."

Sure, like that was going to work.

"Casey, can I talk to you?"

With noticeable shaking in his hands, Casey pressed pause on the movie. Zeke glanced at the still image on the screen, curious about what Casey liked to watch when he was pissed off. There was a desert, and he thought he recognized Kevin Bacon but he didn't know the movie.

"What are you watching?" he asked.

"Tremors."

"I've never seen it."

Casey gave him a look that was almost scornful.

Faltering, Zeke said the first thing that he could think of to say: "Did Sasha mention about Dr. Yves — "

"I called her. Went to see her this afternoon."

"Oh. Good." Casey's mouth thinned into something unpleasant, and terror suddenly got hold of Zeke. He blurted, "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing," Casey said quickly. Abruptly, his eyes were on Zeke, pleading for something. "I didn't say anything — "

"Okay." Zeke put a hand on Casey's knee. Casey jerked in reaction and Zeke moved his hand. "I believe you."

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, wishing he could erase the last minute or so, and while he was at it, he wished that he could stop getting fucked over by his own emotions. He didn't know how or when he'd come to be so fearful, he only knew that it wouldn't be like this if he didn't care so much. Caring was the fucking problem. Before, when he didn't give a damn about anything, he could count on himself to think before he spoke.

Casey said, almost whispering, "I'd like to watch my movie."

"Okay...I'm s — "

He stopped himself, unable to finish that apology because he knew he didn't mean it. Really, he didn't. He wasn't sorry for thinking he was right about certain things, he was only sorry for his methods.

He couldn't be sitting anymore; he rose to his feet. Casey's eyes followed him up.

"I mean...thank you," he finished.

"Zeke? Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

To Casey, Zeke's expression said he'd just as soon have danced the tango with his mother as answer Charly's question. His eyes were narrowed and pointedly calm, calculating and deadly — altogether, a powerful demonstration that this was a person not to be fucked around with. Casey was accustomed to both fearing and admiring that look, but Charly appeared unaffected by it.

Maybe Zeke wasn't as dangerous as usual today, it was hard for Casey to say because his exhaustion was both helping and hindering him. Ever since they had arrived here, Casey had been watching Zeke steadily, or trying to; the absence of sleep had infected his eyes so that everything he saw was surrounded by a hazy sort of unreality. He knew he was awake because his eyes were open but he felt quite certain that he was dreaming at the same time. That haze made it all too easy to detach his brain and enter a meditative state with Zeke as his focus, yet at the same time there was a blank quiet lurking nearby, ready to come forward and swallow him in an instant. He kept blinking it away and discovering that he hadn't been seeing what his eyes were pointed at.

Stokely had been alarmed by his appearance and let him know about it. Earlier, when they sat down in that TV room she had said to him, under the cover of histrionic football announcers and cheering crowds, "You look like crap, you know that?"

Yeah, he had some idea. Sasha had already "convinced" him to call Dr. Chakri's office first thing tomorrow; the convincing consisted of Sasha threatening to call and make the appointment for him if he didn't do it on his own. Casey was supposed to see the doctor in a few weeks but that wasn't soon enough for Sasha. Sasha held himself responsible for Casey's general well-being, Casey knew that and he wished that he was better at hiding his problems at least, since he couldn't seem to fix them. He was starting to think he was that black hole again, that thing that sucked in all light and matter within a certain space. At a certain proximity, there was no escape from him and he would get Stokely too if she wasn't careful.

"Just tired," he'd muttered, trying for a smile.

"Case..." Stokely had said. She'd bitten her lip, then continued, "You know you shouldn't be nervous about being here, right? You know Charly won't hurt you."

He had almost laughed at that, he was so far from being scared of Charly these days. In fact, he had realized that he no longer had the energy to invest in treating Charly as an enemy. Charly already knew stuff about them; whatever she might do to them, she could do whether they approved of it or not.

Besides which, Charly had a very pleasant home and the scent of dinner wafting throughout the house had been thoroughly enticing. And Casey was hungry; he'd not been eating a lot the last few days despite Sasha's and Zeke's best efforts. He was afraid that Dr. Chakri was going to give him major grief but what the fuck did it matter? He could eat turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie until he was ready to explode and still he'd be empty.

"I'm not nervous," he had said, to which Stokely raised her eyebrows.

He wasn't offended by that. She couldn't really be blamed for thinking he was a space cadet, complete with the striped jumpsuit and the communicator badge. After all, she'd had the pleasure of watching him rant about Winona, her eyes getting bigger and bigger the whole time, spelling it out. Of course, she didn't know, she wasn't fully cognizant of the threat that he was dealing with. There was a monster stalking him, stalking his boyfriend and stalking him at the same time. Maybe that was a crazy thought — okay, it was a crazy thought but maybe not so crazy when he could feel the presence of her all around him. He couldn't breathe for sensing her and not even a double handful of scat pens could do the trick this time —

Only the timely intervention of Charly calling them in for Thanksgiving dinner had saved him from running from the room or making some other sort of pitiful exhibition of himself.

They all sat down in the dining room and everything looked and smelled wonderful, except now Charly was going around the table, making them earn their food. She was torturing Zeke right now but Casey knew that sooner or later she'd get back to him. It was distressing to think that people could see him even while he was disappearing — and he was disappearing, really, it was a tangible, physical sensation of hollowness, of not being in the space that visual input told him he was in. He could almost feel the substance of his body dissolving, floating away so that the occasional sound of the voice that he knew was supposed to be him could make him panic. It was a distracting incongruity to be unreal and still hear yourself talk.

But it had a simple fix. All he needed was for Zeke to see him, shut off the valve in his head that was letting the crazy thoughts pour in. His body was disappearing because it was in withdrawal. The first night without Zeke had been merely unbearable...now, three days later he could barely think for needing and he knew Zeke needed him too, Zeke's eyes were constantly on him, wanting him. Not that Zeke was going to do anything, it would be up to Casey to come to Zeke...so all right, fine, he'd been here before. He could be as bold as he needed to be.

"To begin with," Zeke said. "I've never really done holidays so I suppose I'm thankful to be having Thanksgiving at all." He inclined his head to Charly and she returned the gesture, the two of them continuing the dance they'd been doing for the past two hours. Challenge, retreat, counter-challenge, evasion...thrustparrythrustparry, it was making Casey's head hurt.

"So I am grateful for the invitation. And..." Finally, Zeke's gaze moved in Casey's direction. Casey felt himself getting sucked down and in, completely encompassed. He wondered how it would look if he suddenly flung himself across the table into Zeke's lap but of course he couldn't do that, it was foolish and if there was one thing Zeke couldn't stand, it was looking foolish. "I'm grateful," Zeke said, his gaze continuing on to Charly, "For not being in Herrington anymore."

Meaning Thank you in advance for keeping your mouth shut, Charly, and I'm thanking you too, Casey, for keeping your mouth shut in general even if it does mean that therapy will never work for you and you'll be doomed to be this way forever thank you for understanding me, Casey and figuring out a way to make this work, you with your wonderful but sickly brain...you need me don't you we'll get that fixed up for you I'll take care of you I'll take you...

Casey pinched his own thigh as hard as he could. He would have pounded it but someone would undoubtedly notice. In any case, the pain felt good — bright, sharp and real.

He heard a cough...that was Stokely, he thought. "Pretty heavy for you, Zeke," she remarked.

Sasha exclaimed, "It's not fair! I tried to keep it light, you know."

"It wasn't all that heavy," Zeke retorted.

"And Stan, how about you?" Charly said.

Beside Zeke, Stan shrugged and made uncomfortable guy faces. "I'm thankful for my family and friends..." He seemed to be looking directly at Stokely now, and she blushed. "And old friends moved here recently and I'm grateful for that...seeing as I can now beat Zeke's ass in squash every week."

"You can try," Zeke said.

Stan snorted. "Huh. Until you stop polluting your lungs with tar, I won't be trying very hard."

"Oh, amen," Sasha declared.

"What, are we suddenly making a commercial?" Zeke growled. "Just lay off, all of you, I'll quit when I'm fucking ready."

In the quiet following that outburst, Casey could see a space growing around Zeke, like everyone else was subtly shifting to isolate Zeke in that location nearest to the stuffing and the gravy boat and Zeke wasn't seeing that Casey wanted to support him, care for him, kiss and make up and fall into his arms...suddenly, Casey couldn't bear that Zeke didn't know.

"You can't convince someone to quit," he heard someone say. It was his voice, coming louder than he would have wanted. He toned it down and went on. "They have to choose to do it — anyway, I like Zeke the way he is." He caught Zeke's eye at last and said, very softly and just for Zeke, "Sometimes he has to be the bad guy but that's okay."

Now there was a thunderstruck silence at the table and for several suspended moments Zeke stared at Casey in a way that made him sweat and tremble in expectation.

Stokely busted into their little moment with, "Hey, I told Casey he should try squash sometime." She nudged Casey with her elbow.

Stan turned a dubious expression to him. "Um...I'll play with you, Case," he said willingly, earning himself a grin of approbation from Stokely. "Anytime you want, just let me know."

Casey forced his head to go in Stan's direction. "Oh — okay." It made for quite a picture — himself and Stan, locked in a tiny room without windows. If they were playing squash, though, they wouldn't have to do a lot of talking.

"So, Casey," Charly said. "We haven't heard from you yet."

"Maybe he doesn't want to say anything," Zeke growled.

"And that's fine," Charly returned easily. "It's not required, Casey, but...did you want to say what you're thankful for?"

"Louis...I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

There were still many hours left in the day and Sasha wasn't home yet. Not like that was surprising, it was just getting to be near suppertime now and Jerry had said he was cooking a special meal. It would be a long time before Sasha was home.

Casey let the credits blur as they rolled; if nothing else he would appear to be completely absorbed in them should Zeke come out here. Yes, if Zeke emerged from the bedroom where he had been holed up on the pretext of working on school papers, then Casey must be immersed in who was the lead hand or the chief electrician, which actors had played Prosperous Man and Singer with Guitar. He must not be sitting here trying to imagine what Zeke was thinking moment by moment, or how Zeke might respond if Casey were to appear in his doorway.

In truth, for the first hour of the movie Casey hadn't cared what Zeke was thinking or doing in the least. He did not want to see Zeke's face. He was afraid that if he did he would do something...unrecoverable. He might start howling, not out of anger really but out of horror at himself for still wanting those hands on him even while that last, unkind touch was still imprinted on his arms. No, especially because of wanting that touch and if Zeke wouldn't touch him he would make sure he did. As far as he was concerned he had accepted an offer from Zeke and they had reached an understanding: If he obeyed, he would not be deprived, he would not be left alone.

The urge to wail passed; the horror passed, diluted by the knowledge that he didn't give a damn about self-respect — except he had no choice but to care if the result of his disrespect to himself was that Zeke could never respect him again but if Zeke wanted him to have self-respect then why was he doing this, what was the purpose of Zeke staying in that room if not that he was waiting for Casey to break and come to him?

But that was what Zeke did. It was what Roy did. They waited, they knew Casey needed them so they waited and eventually Casey broke and they got to keep their dignity didn't they, they got to be the strong ones.

He was not angry about that, he must not be angry as a matter of sheer practicality. Anger didn't work out, whatever Yves might have to say about it. It was a whole lot of risk for something that would inflame him briefly and then extinguish itself, leaving him to face the ashes. Anyway, if he didn't get angry he would be better able to understand Zeke's side. It was incumbent upon him to understand how Zeke had been driven to do something terrible because of him and so he must not be angry, he must not go in that room and order Zeke to fuck him raw even thought he was goddamned fucking entitled to it...but he could go in there and...not beg, Zeke wouldn't like that. Just be there, be available. Give him a kiss, a touch, let him know that he was not angry anymore...

He couldn't do that. Zeke would despise him. And better that Zeke did not come to him, if Zeke came out here and Casey did so much as look at him he would crumble and then again Zeke would despise him, and Sasha would despise him too when he found out.

If only Sasha would come home. Casey knew that Sasha would come home instantly if he phoned and asked him to, but then there would be no special dinner that Jerry had been talking about and Casey would be wrecking someone else's life. And of course Sasha would want to know what had happened, Sasha would keep asking until he found out. Sasha always found out when he wanted to find out and he would...he would ask questions like he did before and say things like, no, I think you need to keep going to see that shrink, kitten, and Zeke's right, you should tell her everything that happened last summer. Never mind those silly aliens.

There was a stab of pain, and he realized that he had chewed his thumbnail down to the quick. It was bleeding. The screen before him was dark, the credits played out and it was almost completely silent in the apartment. Far off in the distance he could hear Zeke's fingers on the computer keyboard.

He hurried to get up and switch the disc to The Philadelphia Story. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was getting to the point that he really couldn't watch that movie too many more times lest he ruin it for himself. He needed to take a break from it — but he had no choice, unless he wanted to go out to Anton's right now, and Zeke would never let him out the door without some conversation. The thought of talking to Zeke right now was making him hyperventilate so no, going to rent a movie was not an option. Then there was that book of Stokely's that he was still chipping away at, but he didn't think he could concentrate well enough right now to read so that was out too.

What if Zeke did come out here right now, summoned by the sounds of him moving around? He would let him touch him any way he wanted, Zeke could spread him out on the bed and...and he would welcome it, he would —

A noise made him jump. He scurried back to the couch, trembling, waiting for Zeke to appear around the corner — and he had to laugh at himself, giving a derisive snort at the thought of himself shivering in terror like the stupid expendable blond in a horror flick, sobbing and screaming and not even able to run away without falling down. Except her problem was she wanted the monster to catch her all along, wasn't it? At some point she was hypnotized by her own death and just lay there waiting for it.

He pulled in his limbs and pressed play. After interminable seconds, the Paramount theme began to blare and he began to feel a little safer. He got lost in playing voyeur to a world that he could actually understand.

Eventually, something made him look elsewhere, at a figment of Zeke that was standing right there in front of him. "Food," it said.

It didn't admit of the concept of a request. It required, and therefore it had to be the real Zeke. A feeling started to burn in Casey's chest. Oh, right, he knew that one. Resentment — no, he did not feel it, Casey didn't mind, he didn't care that Zeke wanted to take care of him see he would obey, he would follow orders if Zeke would just...just...

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged. If he opened his mouth a long stream of pleading words would come from him, he would fall into Zeke or at him and Zeke would be disgusted with him because didn't he know he was supposed to be angry right now?

"It's your favourite," Zeke said, so softly, with a note of something that made Casey look more closely at him. There were lines of pain and emotion around Zeke's eyes and mouth. He must have a head ache again. He must want Casey to forgive him.

Casey was on the brink of saying it: It's okay it's okay you can do what you like say what you like and it's okay with me just hold me, take me that's all I want when Zeke's expression tightened and he said, "Eat it. Please."

Because Zeke didn't expect to be forgiven. He expected each of them to act with integrity, like whole beings who got angry when it was appropriate to be angry. He wanted that minimal demonstration from Casey so that when Casey actually did submit like Zeke fully expected him to do, it would seem to be a conscious choice based on the apprehension of Zeke's superior logic.

"Okay," Casey said.

Now Zeke was leaving. Casey held onto himself and ground his teeth together to keep from calling after him, begging him to come back. He cast his gaze at the TV screen, at Kate and Jimmy and Cary, but they had nothing for him today. He could feel himself freezing over, the world shrinking...he needed, oh god he needed it so bad, needed...

Xanax.

Oh god, oh fuck, yes, Xanax. It took him a few minutes to be able to move but at least he didn't have to go in the bathroom to the main pill bottle; there was the little candy tin in his jacket pocket, by the door. He moved trying not to make a sound, listening and ready to dampen it the second it could be heard.

Water.

Pill down the hatch.

Rescue coming.

He went back to the couch, wishing without hope for a blanket or his afghan, something to warm him. Lying down on his side, he caught sight of the sandwich that Zeke had left for him. He had better eat that before he fell asleep, he had agreed to it after all.

The white bread stuck to the back of his palate like glue and the mayonnaise tasted like nothing so much as raw egg. He gave up after half. The juice, at least, went down easily and then he lay on his side and waited for oblivion to take him, staring at his pals on the screen. Kate was so pretty but so strong, so mannish sometimes and so sublimely self-contained...Jimmy also very pretty, young, tall and thin, a whisp of a man. And Cary, what to say of Cary...

"...kitten?"

There was light in his eyes. He struggled up just so he could get a hand between it and his face. "Too bright," he groaned.

"Sorry...I couldn't see."

Sasha was sitting very near to him, on the edge of the couch. Casey opened his eyes long enough to ascertain that fact and then closed them again.

"Hey, sleepy, how about you get up and go to bed?"

Casey nodded muzzily — but there was something wrong with that idea. Going to bed sounded good....going to bed...going to bed with Zeke...no. "Sleep with you?" he mumbled. "Please?"

There was a pause.

"Sure, if you want to," Sasha said.

There was tugging. He went with it, and was soon installed in a much better, warmer place. He sank down into it and the last thing he heard was Sasha muttering something nearby.

When he woke up the next morning it was around ten and he was alone. "Hey," Sasha greeted him when he stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing a thick crust of sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," Casey replied, briefly checking the landing for Zeke's shoes. It was a silly thing to do; of course Zeke was at school. Or he wasn't. In either case his shoes wouldn't be there so checking for them was silly because if they were there everything was wonderful and if they weren't there the worst could already have happened without him knowing. Zeke's shoes or the absence of Zeke's shoes would tell him nothing.

"Can I get you some breakfast?" Sasha asked.

"No, thanks." Casey noted the half-full pot of coffee, the mug that Sasha was sporting in his left hand. "How about a cup of coffee?"

"Kitten..."

"Sasha, a shot of caffeine's not going to kill me."

Sasha lifted his hands up and said, "It's your body, kitten, you do what you like."

Casey ground his teeth a bit, and gave up. He started to angle away, saying, "going to shower," but only got as far as fifteen or twenty degrees of a full turn before Sasha's voice stopped him.

"Casey."

"Yeah?"

"How'd it go yesterday?"

Casey considered a number of possible responses, then said, honestly, "I'd rather not talk about it."

True to form, Sasha didn't hear that answer. "Are you and Zeke not speaking to each other? What's going on?"

"Sasha..." Casey didn't think he had intended to whine. He had wanted to sound firm and resolute, but...oh, well, probably too much to expect of a person without any self-dignity.

"You say you don't want to talk about it, okay...but sooner or later I will have to butt in, Casey, whether you guys want me to or not. Now, wouldn't you much rather I was an informed busybody?"

Unable to stay entirely still, Casey began rocking nervously against the nearest wall. "I'd...t-tell you if I could," he said.

"Kitten...would you look at me?"

That was the I'm-Gonna-Make-A-Statement voice. Casey struggled to meet Sasha's eyes and could only manage it for moments here and there.

Either he looked completely pitiful or Sasha decided there was no point in saying it. "Nothing. Go have your shower, kitten."

Casey nodded and resumed his journey towards the bathroom.

He stripped and got into the tub and almost immediately his mind spun towards the void; he clawed his way back, increasing the hot water until it was almost scalding. Memory beckoned and he clung to that, thinking of the numerous times that he and Zeke had been in the shower together. Touching, caressing...cleansing Zeke's skin, being touched, being on his knees, his mouth around Zeke's hot length...or being taken, possessed entirely, no him anymore, just peace. He could not lose that or he would go mad...more mad...Zeke just didn't understand, he didn't have the ability to comprehend a thing like that with his self-sufficient, disciplined mind, and so naturally he got hung up on thinking it was wrong but it didn't have to be wrong. When Zeke came home Casey would tell him, he would show him how right it could be.

A fresh set of alarms blared in his head when he got back to the kitchen; Sasha was sitting at the table, his posture very straight, with eyes both maniacal and determined. "I was just talking to Zeke," he said.

Casey's heart started to throb like it was going to explode. "Oh, yeah?"

"He asked me to tell you that Dr. Yves wants you to call her as soon as possible."

"Kay," he said, trying to sound casual.

"And I insist that you tell me something."

"What...what did Zeke say?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I...don't think I should..."

Sasha didn't roar. He didn't yell, or even speak, but his eyes started to glisten and Casey immediately felt his own tears approaching. This was just like when his mother cried. It always got to him, it was pure action and reaction. "I'm sorry," he muttered, getting ready to flee.

"No." Sasha raised a hand. "I'm sorry. It's your prerogative, of course. And you're probably right. Actually, Jerry's been telling me I'm way too invested in your life, he says — well, never mind. I just wanted to say that you can tell me anything, kitten. I promise I won't judge, I won't yell at you, I'll just try to help you solve what needs solving. Okay?"

Casey didn't want to say anything, for fear that he might reactivate Sasha's curiosity. He ventured, "Okay."

Sasha smiled broadly. "You going to make that phone call now?"

Obedient as always, Casey took the handset into the bedroom. Sasha knew him too well; Sasha wasn't going to satisfy himself with just delivering the message and trusting Casey. Good for Sasha — because Casey would never have called Yves otherwise.

At least Sasha couldn't keep him from a little procrastination. He would check his email first.

There was a message from his father: I was wondering if you had made a decision yet about school. Not to put any pressure on you, it just occurred to me that if you were going, it's getting late to do the paperwork. Let us know, all right?

He could have killed a lot more time writing a reply; in fact, he started six or seven times before he gave up and reconciled himself to the fact that this was going to require a phone call, and as phone calls went, the Helen Yves call was probably going to be less of an ordeal than the Frank Connor call. He dug up his shrink's phone number — it was scribbled on one of the pages in his anxiety workbook — and then sat staring at it for half an hour, trying to work up the will to dial the numbers. Finally he just made himself do it, praying that he would get her answering machine.

"Helen Yves."

No such luck.

"Hello, it's — it's Casey...Connor."

"Hello, Casey. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he said tightly, his hands absolutely quivering — with rage, he realized. Her voice had made yesterday's rage into today's. Of course, it hadn't really been her. She had been just doing her job, unlike some other people in the room.

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was a little concerned given the way yesterday's session ended. I'd like to talk to you about it, I think it would be helpful. Do you think you can come to see me today or tomorrow?"

"Not Thursday?"

"It's Thanksgiving, remember?"

"Oh. What about Friday?"

"I'm going to be unavailable from Thursday until Sunday."

"Next week, then."

"I think sooner would be better, don't you?"

He assumed that she didn't want an honest answer to that. "Yeah," he said.

"So," she pressed. "Today or tomorrow?"

"Today," he whispered.

"I have a slot at three."

He was supposed to be at relaxation at one, as per usual. Theoretically, there were no scheduling conflicts. "Fine," he agreed.

"Very good, I'll put you down for three. And Casey?"

"Yes?"

"There's no retaliation here, remember? We're just going to talk."

"I know."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you."

Even as he hung up, he knew he was not going to show. He had the feeling that she knew it too.

He couldn't bear to watch The Philadelphia Story or Casablanca again, so he watched game shows until it was time to leave for relaxation. He made a point of telling Sasha that he had a therapy appointment and wouldn't get home until after and he was lying twice over when he said that, because he wasn't going to attend relaxation either. He let Sasha drive him to the Powell Relaxation Clinic and he went in but once again he didn't go any further than the stairwell.

As he was walking home, the idea came to him: He should go to the university and find Zeke. Not to bother him, just to watch him...

He was losing it. He needed to think about something else.

That need drew him unerringly to Anton's place; he spent a solid half an hour there, roaming up and down the aisles. For most of the time, he was the only person there aside from Anton, who knew better by now than to try and make conversation with him when he was on the movie hunt.

He decided to go with a cheesy monster theme; it was always satisfying to see the least likely character prevail over the monster in the end. It would have been nice if the monsters in his life weren't always in disguise. In the movies that he liked, the monster might sneak up on you but it was the kind that always only looked like a monster...unlike the monster that was hunting him now...see, that was why it would be good to go to the university and find Zeke. To know that he was doing only school-related things with Winona...or if he wasn't, Casey would finally see for himself and he would do whatever it took to get rid of her except he really dreaded the prospect of getting there on the bus and what did it mean when the worst sort of Fatal Attraction stuff started to make perfect sense in your head...

He felt his heart skip and realized that he was wheezing. He had to get out of here.

Anton looked alarmed when he presented himself at the counter with his movies and he was gasping for breath. "Okay there, kid?"

He nodded. "Just...need to get...home..."

Anton's eyes widened and he gesticulated at Casey with both hands. "Take the movies, kid, I know you'll bring them back. We'll settle up later."

"Thanks..."

Cradling the movies in his arms like they were his children, he raced home. The first thing he did after dropping the DVD's on the kitchen table was run to the bathroom and shove one of his pills down his throat, and even though he was alone in the apartment, he shut the bathroom door and locked it. He stayed in there, pacing back and forth and counting to himself until he felt somewhat calmer, calm enough to unlock the door and bring his movie catch to the living room. Not fifteen minutes into Tremors he discovered that his eyes had gotten to heavy to hold open; he stopped the DVD and got comfortable for his impending oblivion.

When he woke from that drug-fuelled sleep, it was evening and Zeke was home, clacking away in the bedroom. Casey lay quietly for a while, not wanting to do anything that would alert Zeke to the fact that he was awake. Ultimately, though, he needed his diversion more desperately than he needed to hide, so he resumed watching the movie. Inevitably, it drew Zeke out of the bedroom.

Of course Zeke asked him about therapy, and of course he lied. When Zeke wanted to know what Casey had said, if he had broken any of the conditions, Casey did toy for a few seconds with the reply, No, I didn't tell her anything because I didn't go to see her...It was right on the tip of his tongue in fact but when he opened his mouth out came the lie.

Well, he was a liar, and Zeke knew it, too — or he had known it, but Casey had gradually worn away that knowledge until Zeke actually believed him most of the time and as much as Casey wanted to make amends with Zeke and be with him, he couldn't stand to be in Zeke's presence. Zeke was looking at him like he was someone who could be trusted and he didn't deserve to be looked at that way so he asked Zeke to go away. He finished watching Tremors and a while later, Jaws, and then, around four in the morning, he gave up on natural sleep and took another Xanax.

Wednesday was pretty much the same except that night he was determined not self-medicate, with the result that he never did get to sleep. He stayed up all night thinking about Zeke with his long, smooth body stretched out in that comfortable bed, while his own body ached from acute Zeke-deficiency. Fucking self-respect, this was all its fault. He didn't actually have any of the stuff, he didn't want any of it. However he had gotten here, this was him. He was as he was.

He knew what beautiful really was now. It was surrender to a thing, just a thing that was simple and complete in itself and nothing more. Only he could know that, though, because to Zeke, to Sasha and Dr. Yves, a thing had to be bad or good, right or wrong. Casey knew he could have beautiful if he asked for it, he just had to be prepared to take judgment along with it.

Zeke had just given up on ever hearing Casey's voice again when he answered, "I'm thankful for Xanax."

There was gentle laughter from the group, excluding Charly who perhaps didn't know what the Xanax reference was about or thought she wasn't intimate enough with him to laugh at the joke. Zeke dared a chuckle since it seemed reasonably probable that Casey had intended to be funny — and Casey's comment a few minutes ago had given him hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the bad guy anymore. He'd heard those gorgeous, beneficient words...sometimes Zeke has to be the bad guy but that's okay... and looked and there, right across the table was his Casey, the one with the accommodating eyes and acts of undeserved generosity.

"Okay, I'll go now," Charly said when the laughter had faded. "And I'll make it quick so we can get down to business here. I'm thankful to be in the company of these five young people, that you were willing to come to my house and eat food cooked by me and I'm especially grateful that you are all doing well and have bright futures...especially when I think of what some of you have survived together."

Zeke's head snapped in her direction and the warmth he had been feeling just moments ago shrivelled. He simply couldn't believe Charly's brazenness, especially after he had warned her in the plainest, most direct language he could devise — and especially after he had decided to come here and act as if this were a simple invitation to a turkey dinner. He began to compose a retort to her comment and abandoned it upon seeing Stokely's pleading look. Stan was frowning disapproval at his aunt already; that would have to do.

Charly smiled. "Dig in, everybody." She picked up the platter of meat before her and sent it on its way around the table.

Zeke wondered if eating her food now would compromise his integrity, but only briefly. For one thing he was starving, and for another, Casey seemed not to have heard Charly's shit-disturbing comment. Content that his principles were not being compromised, Zeke took a helping of everything that passed his way and ignored Charly. His highly-tuned radar would be dedicated to a higher purpose — as in, watching what Casey ate. Zeke was well aware that Casey had not consumed much except prescription drugs over the last few days.

He was prepared to give Casey some grief about how much he ate, right here in front of everyone if necessary. As it turned out, Casey was acting like he might just be hungry too, filling his plate with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad and bread — and then, unexpectedly, he found some kind of casserole that looked like orange mush studded with marshmallows. He pushed everything as far as he could onto the margins of his plate and began mounding on that goo.

"Whoa," Stan said, watching him. "I guess you like those."

"They look like my mom's," Casey said, dipping a finger in the syrupy juice and tasting. The expression on his face was the most untroubled Zeke had seen in weeks, possibly months. "Actually, I think these are my mom's."

Charly confessed, "I mentioned to your mom that you were coming for dinner...She emailed the recipe to me."

It seemed to be of no concern to Casey that Charly and his mom were having regular communication, so Zeke wasn't going to let that perturb him, especially when it led to this kind of positive outcome. Casey had taken the first bite, his eyes closing for a few seconds. When he opened them, he saw that everyone was watching him have oral sex with his potatoes. "I haven't had these for..." he paused to swallow, memories ticking away behind his eyes "...a while," he finished. "Thank you."

"Nothing to it," Charly said. "It was your mom's idea anyway."

Casey actually smiled at her, and set to eating with something close to joyful abandon. Sasha gaped, open-mouthed, and Zeke could scarcely do less himself. It was inconceivable that a person could be as socially and emotionally challenged as Casey had been acting the last few days and still approach a thing like sweet potatoes with such straightforward enjoyment.

"So," Charly asked as she poured gravy over everything on her plate. "What have you boys been up to?"

Casey glanced at Sasha, who looked at Zeke, who was just getting started on his food. He had to pause with his fork half-raised, mashed potatoes half-way to his mouth. "Not too much," he answered. "Going to school. Hanging out."

"Casey? How about you?"

"Um...I was..." Casey tore himself away from his casserole with difficulty. "...thinking about school."

"Oh, yes?" Charly looked interested.

Casey was visibly reluctant, but he added for her benefit, "My parents want me to...to go back."

"In January, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you will?"

Inadvertently, Zeke made a sound; Casey's eyes darted in his direction. Perhaps it was rude, but Casey had to be aware and to appreciate Zeke's displeasure at this line of conversation. Zeke knew that Casey had yet to break the news to his parents about his wish to change majors, and no one could expect the response to be a good one. He was fully prepared to support Casey in any way he needed but in his personal view Casey was nowhere near ready to be at school. He had improved in all sorts of ways, but he still took trips to bizarro-ville on a regular basis. And then there was the fact that Casey seemed more willing to talk to Charlotte Just-Blurt-Out-Whatever's-On-Your-Mind Rosado than to Zeke about all of this --- no, Zeke was not comfortable at all.

"I think you should do it," Stokely opined freely.

Casey hunched his shoulders. "I don't know," he said.

Stokely pressed, "But you're so smart, Casey, you should — "

"You don't know what you're talking about, Stokely," Zeke interrupted.

"Are you saying Casey isn't smart?"

"No, of course I'm not saying that but how about you give it up for now?"

"Why, because you don't want to talk about it? It's Casey's life."

"Children, children," Sasha intervened. "Can we not argue at the dinner table? It's rude to our hostess, not to mention it's making my head hurt."

Stokely opened her mouth to argue, then said, "Right. Sorry, Charly. Sorry, Case." She winced apologetically in Casey's direction, fired off a salvo of mega-bitch at Zeke and returned to her tofu.

Stan took that moment to announce, "I'm going to take a journalism course in the fall."

Charly nodded approvingly and Stokely grinned at Stan. "You signed up? That's excellent, Stan." She mucked with her tofu. "Maybe it's time for me to think about applying for school too." She gazed around the table, self-consciously. "Wouldn't that be funny, though? The old team back together?"

"Minus Delilah," Stan noted.

"No loss," Stokely finished smoothly, eliciting a chuckle from Stan.

"She could be a real...piece of work," he agreed.

"She has her moments though," Zeke declared. To his satisfaction, Stan looked a little shame-faced.

"I take it the five of you never bonded entirely," Charly remarked.

That was almost but not quite crossing the line. Zeke turned his scariest look on her but it had no effect. He then turned to Casey, to reassure him — but Casey didn't look to be in need of reassurance. Indeed, Casey didn't seem to care.

Well, of course he didn't. That was his passive way of getting revenge on Zeke, not caring what Charly said or did, smiling at her, talking to her when he'd barely talked to Zeke for three days, taunting Zeke with the prospect of new mayhem ...Hey, what if I told her...what if I just told her...? Sure, it was a good idea if you were so far removed from the social compact that your continued viability as a member of the human race barely mattered to you — except it would fucking well matter when they dragged Casey off to the nuthouse, he would be clinging to Zeke then, wouldn't he, and he'd be talking to Zeke too, begging Zeke to rescue him.

"No," Stokely said, briefly. "We still kept to our little cliques, right, Zeke?"

"Whatever," he snapped.

"Delilah sure did."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, come on! There was that short blip where she decided it would be fun to string Casey along for a while, but then she was back to her old ways."

Charly said, "I'm sure that she just wanted to believe that nothing happened, Stokely. Like a lot of people. It's a very human reaction."

She might have been making an effort to placate Stokely, and perhaps to bring down the level of hostility in the room, but she missed the mark big time. "I don't like this conversation," Zeke informed her.

"Me neither," Stan piped up.

To Zeke's astonishment, Charly appealed directly at Casey. "How do you feel about it, Casey?"

"Are we here to eat or not?" Zeke demanded. "I thought this was just a dinner invite — maybe I was wrong."

Charly sounded a little testy when she replied, "I only thought that Casey might have something to say."

"He doesn't," Zeke decreed, and began shovelling his food down, wondering how he could be the exact same stupid so many times in a row. He was furious at Charly, furious at Stan for being her emissary, furious at Stokely for being so blind to her manipulations, furious at Casey for showing Zeke that there was no limit to how far he would go to prove his pathological otherness...but mostly, he was furious at himself for agreeing to put himself in this situation when both instinct and reason had said it was a bad idea.

For some time they all dedicated themselves to the contents of their plates, raising and lowering their forks as though eating was a highly specialized skill that demanded all their attention. Finally, Stan made an attempt to pierce the silence.

"How's your tofu?" he asked Stokely, making a sympathetic face.

"It's good," Stokely answered all too readily. Then she grimaced and said, "Actually...it sucks."

"I followed the recipe — " Charly started with a frown.

"I know, sorry...It's really good as tofu goes, it's just...not...turkey."

"This is a special occasion," Sasha said, batting his eyes suggestively. "You could treat yourself."

"Ugh!" Stokely groaned. "Don't tempt me!"

"Sorry."

"It does smell really good though." Stokely stared longingly at the platter of meat, then glanced away. "Huh. Some vegetarian I am."

Sasha queried, "So you don't actually find meat disgusting?"

"No. I keep waiting for that point to arrive but it hasn't yet."

Stan said, "I admire it."

"What?"

"The way you make a promise and stick to it."

"It's called discipline," Charly put in.

"Yeah, discipline," Stan agreed. "I admire your discipline."

Zeke looked for Stokely's response to what was, in his ears, as blatant a case of sucking-up as he'd ever witnessed. She was smiling and blushing, alternately playing with her food and meeting Stan's eye with a sparkle of welcome. Stan grinned back and Zeke had to wonder if he and Casey ever made anyone want to puke with their little public flirtations, because he was feeling pretty nauseated right now.

"Hey, thanks, Stan," Stokely said, then changed the subject. "So like...what are we having for Zeke's birthday party?"

Sasha was caught with a mouthful of food; he took time to swallow it before answering, "I was thinking stuffed mushroom caps, wings, and my special nachos."

"Mmm...basically anything that goes with beer."

"You got it." Sasha was obviously trying to be casual as he added, "And you're going to bring a cake, right?"

"Yep."

"Did you...have anything in mind?"

Stokely laughed. "Don't look so nervous! It'll have all the bad stuff in it, I promise."

"But then you won't be able to have any," Stan said to her.

"I'll make something else for myself," Stokely replied, with a come-hither smile.

Zeke groaned, "Oh, for fuck sake why don't you two just get a room?"

"You're one to talk," Stokely retorted sweetly.

"Eat me," Zeke returned with satisfaction. Sometimes it just felt good to be infantile.

"Thanks but no thanks."

"Well," Sasha intervened loudly, "Let me help you with the dishes, Charly."

"No, you need a break from that I'm sure," Charly replied.

"Oh, no, usually I'm the one who makes them dirty so others have to wash them up." Sasha was collecting dirty plates as he spoke, scraping the bones and leftovers onto the top one and stacking the rest underneath.

"I'll help too," Casey said quietly.

"We can all help," Stokely proposed. "There's more than enough mess for all of us."

"That's hardly necessary," Charly said. She now looked amused. "We'll just be tripping over each other and I insist on being allowed to clean up my own mess." Standing up, Charly said with what appeared to be satisfaction, "You, Sasha, are forbidden to help but since you were the next to volunteer, Casey, you could..."

Zeke almost shouted — or maybe he should have shouted, maybe it would have some kind of effect on this woman since nothing else did. He wasted no time glowering at her either but quickly moved on to Casey whom he found was looking right back at him — oh, yes, that was most definitely defiance. Such a diffident, almost expressionless face had to be harboring rebellion.

"No, I'll help," Zeke growled.

He drilled into Casey with a silent command; it didn't need to be articulated. Casey promptly lowered his eyes.

Zeke turned to Charly and said, "You sit down. Watch some football."

"This is stupid," Stan said.

"Thank you for that astute observation."

Charly folded her arms. "You're a guest in my home, Zeke, you don't need to do anything."

"Then neither does Casey."

"True enough." She shrugged. "So no guests will help. That leaves you and me, Stan. Come on."

Everyone rose from the table at once, probably in a bit of a hurry to get away from it. Zeke immediately moved around to the other side of it and took up a position near Casey, fighting the urge to collect him and make a break for the exit. Charly took the large stack of dirty plates and left the room, followed closely by Stan with the large platter and gravy boat.

"Go relax in the TV room," Charly called from the kitchen. "We'll have dessert in a little while."

Zeke did then what he had been needing to do all day, and even longer than that: He grasped Casey's arm. It was the first physical contact between them in three days, apart from last night's haunting, and even though Casey was wearing two long-sleeved shirts, Zeke's body reacted. He was completely certain that he could feel Casey's skin through the layers of fabric.

He gave a gentle tug, almost expecting Casey to pull away and start yelling, but Casey came along without protest. At Zeke's direction, he went meekly into the other room and sat on a couch. Zeke sat next to him, pushing himself up close so that their arms and legs were pressed together.

Sasha and Stokely had trailed behind them. Stokely sat down on Casey's other side, leaving a slightly larger space between them than Zeke had allowed. Sasha's first act was to pick up the TV remote. He clicked on the football game and turned the volume up a couple of notches to camouflage the ass-kicking he was about to deliver. Zeke waited as graciously as he could as Sasha took a seat on the recliner nearest to him.

"That was unbelievably rude, Zeke," he said in a low tone. "This woman invited us to her home and cooked for us."

Zeke shrugged. Beside him, Casey shifted his weight. Zeke looked at him and saw him chewing on a knuckle; under Zeke's gaze, he glanced up. There was flicker of something there but Zeke couldn't decide if it was meant to be defiance or enticement. Either way it was maddening.

Sasha went on, "Zeke, you need to get your shit together, this is fucking bullshit and you can't — "

"Excuse me," Zeke interrupted. Stokely had put her hand on Casey's arm for some reason and Zeke was pretty sure he saw Casey flinch. He warned her, "Don't touch him."

With disbelieving eyes and a shocked mouth, Stokely appealed to Casey for an overrule. When none arrived, she flung herself to the other end of the couch with a noise of disgust.

Zeke put his arm around Casey's shoulders. His nerves sang, he felt like he was glowing with triumph and all the blood in him making swift retreat to his groin. He saw Casey's chest heaving slightly beside him and wondered why hadn't he taken charge and touched Casey before this when it could have made everything better already.

But Casey was moving. He was pulling away. He was standing.

"Where are you going?" Zeke demanded.

Casey flushed, looking at the floor. "To the bathroom," he said, and then went about it without waiting for permission from Zeke.

Moments later they heard Casey's feet on the stairs, which Stokely took as proof that he was out of earshot because she immediately told Zeke, "Why are you acting like...like you're fucked in the head?"

Zeke had to suppress an urge to commit a violent act. No one seemed to understand that he had legitimate worries here. He was in love with a person who was erratic and profoundly unconcerned about their own well-being, and for some reason everyone he knew had decided to not be on his side even though he was asking for nothing other than common sense. He hissed at Stokely, "I would have thought that you at least would get it."

"Get what?"

"Why it's good to be careful."

"Zeke...Everyone in this house knows about the aliens already and no one has any intention of hurting Casey — or you, although I'd kinda like to smack you upside the head right now."

"It isn't like anyone plans to hurt anyone."

Stokely went silent for a bit. Just when Zeke thought she wasn't going to respond, she agreed, "No. They don't."

She didn't seem to have any more to say. Zeke faced the TV; he watched the little men in tight pants running and colliding on the screen until Sasha said, "Can we change the channel, please?" and Zeke waved that he should watch whatever he liked because he was actually just counting time until it would be reasonable for him to go after Casey.

Ten minutes passed.

Ignoring dismayed looks from both Stokely and Sasha, Zeke went upstairs. At the end of the hall, he saw the bathroom door wide open, the room itself empty. With the growing knowledge of his soon-to-be vindication, he proceeded down the hallway. He was barely surprised when, in passing the open door of Charly's office he saw Casey standing there with Charly. Charly was leaning against her desk and handing something to Casey. Casey accepted it with perfect complaisance.

It was fucking tough being right all the time.

"What's this?" he said, with all the indignation of a jilted lover in a play, and he was almost gratified to see that Casey winced. Even Charly had the grace to look a little flustered, although she recovered her poise quickly.

"We were just talking," she said. "Well, I was talking, mostly."

Zeke came right into the room and saw what Casey was holding in his hand. It was the magazine, it was the issue of Time that had made Casey infamous. He took it from Casey and offered it to Charly like hard evidence of some crime.

"Casey said he didn't have a copy of that," Charly explained. "I have two, so I thought I'd give him that one."

Zeke slapped the magazine down on the desk and said loudly, "I take it you snuck up here so you could be lying in wait for him when he had to take a piss?"

Casey opened his mouth and closed it without a word. He averted his body, as though he needed to make a full examination of the titles on Charly's shelves, and started to rock slightly, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I did want to talk to him," Charly said. "I haven't made a secret of that, but obviously I'm not going to sneak around my own house."

"So you just happened to be up here when he came up."

"That's right. Like I said, I thought I would go grab the magazine for him."

Zeke folded his arms. "Can we just get down to it? What is it that you want from us?"

Charly took her time in answering, and when she did she was obviously formulating her words with caution. "You think that I want to hurt you but I don't. You think I want to expose you — or him — and I don't."

"You've been trying to get your hooks into him from day one."

"No, that's not — " Charly broke off, shaking her head. Taking a breath to compose herself, she resumed, "All this trying to get to know you, to be friends, it isn't for some ulterior purpose. I just want to help. It's not easy being on your own for the first time in a strange city, I know that because I came here myself when I was twenty and it wasn't exactly a picnic."

"Okay, fine." Zeke would give her that one. "But you keep bringing up things that you know we don't want brought up."

"I'm sorry, but the thing about aliens intrigues me. It always did, even before the Herrington episode. I don't believe in god or any sort of religious bullshit, but I don't want to think about a universe that is empty. I want a universe that's full. That's my version of the comforting lie, you understand? Ever since your experience, I've been collecting accounts of alien contact on earth...abductions, sightings, everything. Nothing is too bizarre for me. Your experience, what you described, is probably the most convincing account I know of."

"But they weren't friendly," Casey said, to the wall.

"I know." Charly shrugged. "It doesn't matter as long as I know there's something else out there. I don't believe in angels or friendly spirits, I believe in nature."

"When you say 'collect,'" Zeke asked slowly, "What do you mean?"

"Mostly, things from newspapers, magazines...police reports, that sort of thing, and I had this idea — just recently, after you moved here I'll admit...I've been thinking, if we could interview survivors and put them in a book or at least a journal — "

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I meant it when I said someone should do a follow up, Zeke. It has to be about the experience — before, during, and after. That kind of depth would do justice to your story and make amends for some of the shit reporting I saw. I have a vested interest in good journalism, you know? I've always thought your story needed to be told properly, not just milked for the shock value."

"And I suppose you're just the reporter to do it."

"No — but I do know several excellent investigative journalists — serious, credible, journalists — who might be willing to take this on."

Zeke made like he was actually considering it. "Have you spoken with them?"

"Not yet."

"Good. And you're not going to, you understand?"

"Zeke — "

"It is not going to happen."

"Have you considered that there are three others who might have an opinion on this? Have you asked Casey what he thinks?"

Charly probably didn't see Casey's head twist around, his eyes caught and fearful. Zeke did see it, and he also saw that Stan and Stokely were both standing in the doorway, watching and listening with gaping eyes and mouths. Sasha's head was prominent behind them. "I don't have to ask Casey," Zeke snarled. "I know what he thinks."

Stokely attempted to intervene with, "Zeke, would you friggin' listen to yourself?"

"Were you in on this?" he charged, rounding on her and Stan. "Both of you in on this?"

"I didn't even know!" Stan protested.

"I thought — " Stokely began.

"Never mind. Casey and I are leaving now."

"You don't have to leave," Charly said. "If you don't want to tell the story, that's all I need to hear. I'll try persuasion but I'm not going to force anyone." But her next statement was addressed to Casey alone. "That is, I assume you don't want to."

"Don't talk to him!" Zeke shouted.

"Zeke, man," Stan protested.

"Be reasonable," Stokely put in. "She hasn't hurt anyone."

"I am reasonable," Zeke snapped. "I'm the only reasonable person here, apparently." He wheeled about and told Casey, "We're leaving now." He would not grab Casey, because only a person insecure about his authority would need to grab. He let his gaze linger until he was confident that Casey was going to follow him, then headed for the door. Stan and Stokely moved back to let them through.

"Case," Stokely pleaded when Zeke was almost at the top of the stairs. "Why don't you say something?"

"He's said enough," Zeke stated, over his shoulder.

"No," Charly's voice corrected from behind him. "He never said anything to me, Zeke. Just so you know."

Zeke stopped at that. Casey nearly bumped into him; he turned and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Charly was standing in the hallway along with the others. "Look," he said to her, fighting to get the words past a tight, aching throat. "I'm really sorry this happened. It...it was nice of you to make us dinner and I don't think you really mean to do any harm. You just don't seem to know when to let something go."

"Stay, Zeke."

"No. Sorry, we can't."

He lead the way downstairs and out to the car but didn't get in. He just stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the night sky and trying to control his shaking. He recognized this was a moment that he would always remember; way down the road when most of the years between twenty and thirty were gone this memory would stick out. Everything around him felt contingent and fragile and he understood completely how it was all beyond his control, that there was absolutely nothing that could not get away from him. Stan or Stokely could do what they would do and Charly would say what Charly said and at any second passing meteorite could suck away their atmosphere so they had nothing to breathe or existence could just stop itself like a candle going out. Meanwhile, all he had the power to do was try to stop Casey from doing himself any further harm. He should, he had to, and he would.

While he stood there contemplating his powerlessness, Sasha came barrelling out the door, yanking on his jacket as he tumbled down the front steps. "Forget somebody?"

"You want to be in the same car with me?"

Sasha made the universal face of patience-seeking; his eyes closed, his mouth thinned, and he took one, very deliberate breath before saying, "Okay...You know what? Stop acting like you're alone in this. It just makes it easier for you to be a dictator and I've had quite enough for one night."

Zeke found himself without a reply. And still shaking.

"Get in the car," Sasha said, more gently. "I'll drive."

"But — "

"Shut up and give me the keys."

Casey was standing aside watching them with a white face and frozen, gargantuan eyes. At Sasha's gesture he crawled in the back, and Zeke obediently got in the passenger's side.

Sasha started muttering to himself as he pulled away from the curb.

"....nothing like ruining a perfectly good turkey dinner...of course it's a holiday tradition, isn't it, families just gotta go nuts on Thanksgiving and Christmas...but then, hey, this was nothing! A teeny little drama compared to some of my family get-togethers, I could go another ten rounds if I had to but here's the problem, I'm supposed to go to Jerry's mother's for second dessert, not that I even had first dessert. I promised, now what am I going to tell him..."

Sasha paused, quite possibly to take in some oxygen.

"Do you want me to say something?" Zeke asked.

"Not really."

All was silence for the remainder of the drive home.

Back in the apartment, Sasha went immediately to the phone while Casey and Zeke each went to their separate corners, to the couch and the computer. Zeke had left the computer on, and he stared at the screensaver images, a montage of still images downloaded from the American Film Institute while in the distance Sasha talked to Jerry. He couldn't quite make out the content, but it didn't sound like a lighthearted conversation. After it ended he strained his ears and eventually heard a murmur of Casey speaking and Sasha replying. The next thing he heard was the door to the apartment opening and closing and he understood that Casey — the mute, the perpetually silent — had convinced Sasha to leave.

Zeke's heart began to pound, and then pound faster when he heard the very faint scuffle of Casey's feet on the carpet in the hallway, and faster still as he sensed Casey's presence somewhere behind him.

Zeke spun the desk chair to face him. Three days gone and now, at last, Casey was entirely incarnated in his bedroom, real and warm and staring back at him. Neither one of them seemed inclined to move; for Zeke's part, he knew that if Casey made a single move in his direction, he would erupt. He saw himself descending upon him and dragging him to the nearest flat surface — maybe the bed, maybe not. He might not get that far.

He couldn't think of anything insightful to say, so he asked, "How did you get him to leave?"

"I asked."

"Really, is that all it takes?" Zeke's throat was dry. He decided that standing up was within his power now; in reciprocity, Casey took a jerky step in his direction, then stopped and bit his lip. His face twisted up like he was fighting something.

"Okay, so — " Zeke started.

"Fuck!" Casey swore. He kicked out sideways, deliberately hitting the wall, then angled his body and banged his entire forearm, including his fist, against it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

It took a few seconds for Zeke to get to him and pull him away from the wall. "That's not — Case — "

Casey's arms immediately twined about him, clinging — but only for a moment, letting him go just as suddenly while Casey fixed his gaze on a place somewhere near Zeke's feet. His muffled voice said, "I can't — I can't stop it don't be disgusted with me — "

"Disgusted...Why would I be?"

"Because I'm — I'm gross and pathetic but I just don't care anymore."

"But...aren't you angry?"

At that, Casey raised his head and Zeke got a close-up view of his fevered expression as he ranted, "I know I'm supposed to, and I know you'll be disgusted by me but I don't care. I know I should be pissed at you and I am, I promise I am but I just can't...feel it." His hand slid around Zeke's neck and up into his hair, tugging on it, pulling his mouth down as he strained up. "Don't care...don't be..." he hissed. He lunged, his mouth violently meeting Zeke's, his teeth snarling with Zeke's lip, and at the same time he yanked on Zeke's hair so hard that Zeke let out a cry of pain.

Zeke grabbed a wrist and an upper arm and forced Casey back, into the wall.

They stared at each other, both panting hard, their chests heaving together. Zeke tasted something metallic in his mouth and tested his lower lip with a finger that came away red; blood had been drawn. Casey made a bid for freedom abruptly, trying to pull his hands free. His teeth snapped at Zeke's jaw too, but Zeke evaded that and bore down with all his weight, forcing a knee between Casey's legs.

He wanted to keep Casey still there against the wall — there was something he wanted to say although he was having difficulty remembering what it was — but Casey was both frantic and extremely bendable, slithering left or right as needed to thrust his crotch against whatever part of Zeke he happened to come into contact with. Hip and pelvic bones ground almost audibly. Zeke moaned when their erections finally made haphazard contact and swallowed Casey's answering cry with his own mouth. He crushed his lips against Casey's, meeting no resistence at all. Casey's tongue plunged and his mouth suctioned Zeke's into his, his body pressing desperately against Zeke, completely without balance or dignity.

For a time Zeke lost almost everything but the pulse and motion of that mouth but through it he managed to cling to his niggling worry. He struggled to pull back far enough to speak, drawing a sigh of desperation from Casey as he did. Casey's finger's bit into his forearms, trying to keep him in place. "Wait," Zeke gasped.

"No...wait."

"Yes, wait...you're angry."

Casey's eyes opened, revealing an unwholesome, manic glitter. He spat, "So? Never makes a difference."

Since his lover was demonstrating marginal coherence right then, Zeke thought it best that he take advantage and get right to the point: "I won't fuck you when you're angry at me."

Instantly, the glint in those eyes went nuclear. "You have to."

"I don't have to do anything."

If one approach wasn't working for him, Casey could easily take another. A sheen of tears appeared, although it did not dilute the laser-like heat that was boring into Zeke. Casey said, "I don't want you to see me beg."

Zeke cupped Casey's face in his hands. "Then don't beg," he said.

Casey shoved his hands away, ducking under his arm. Zeke stayed where he was and watched as Casey started to prowl the room. Something awful was coming on; he could tell by the way that Casey covered fewer and fewer feet in each lap of the room, the area that he was treading getting shorter each time so that within moments he was reduced to jittering in small, irregular circles. All that time he was mumbling. "Thought you understood, I thought...did what you wanted, didn't I? I didn't say anything, I thought we had an understanding."

Absently, Zeke marvelled that he could still be as extremely aroused as he was when a big part of him just wanted to flee the room. "What understanding?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

"You wanted me to be quiet about aliens, you threatened not to be with me anymore. So I said I would be quiet — that was the deal, wasn't it?"

Zeke realized a second after this statement that his mouth hanging open. Silly or not, it seemed to be what you did when you were completely blindsided.

"You threatened that you'd leave me," Casey accused.

"No, Casey, no — please stop that — stop pacing!" Casey stopped in his tracks, putting his hands together at his chest and wringing them together like he was trying to tear off a piece of himself. "That wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Zeke wished he knew. The only thing that he did know was that he had read Casey's silence completely wrong. All this time he'd thought that Casey wasn't talking to him because he was angry at being bullied. Meanwhile, Casey was actually angry that Zeke seemed to be ignoring the terms of an agreement — but that wasn't what he had meant, was it? No, it couldn't have...Three days ago he had been in a blind panic, thinking about forcing the issue of Casey's secrets, telling on him to the doctor, and yes, he had been thinking about sex but not giving it up, never giving it up. Certainly not ever leaving Casey. In truth, he hadn't really thought through what he was threatening, he just knew that he could stop Casey, that he had to stop him or he would lose him. Not losing Casey had been the whole fucking point.

Zeke discovered that he needed to rest his legs. Possibly also his head. He stumbled in the direction of the bed and sat heavily. His eyes fell upon Casey's hands; they were small but also kind of squat and, he knew from experience, quite strong. They were clenching and unclenching as Zeke watched. Maybe Casey was fighting an urge to wind up and punch Zeke, and as much as Zeke wasn't into pain, a punch sounded kind of refreshing. Maybe it would help to clear his head.

Casey's hands had fallen open, Zeke saw. The trajectory had shifted and they were coming towards him. They touched his shoulders, and then Casey was moving right up close to his body, slipping into the space between his knees. Cool fingers trailed a pattern over his sweaty forehead and down his cheeks, stroking his jaw. A voice whispered to him, "It doesn't matter, Zeke, I swear. It's okay, I...it really is and you know I was good, I didn't talk or anything...because I don't want you to worry. It won't be wrong if...if we care about each other it won't be wrong, just don't think like that."

Stalling for time, Zeke put his arms loosely around Casey's waist. Casey had said it a few minutes ago: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Such an astute observation, that, because Zeke was very much afraid that it would be wrong — how could it not be when he couldn't touch Casey without Casey viewing it as a consummation of this unholy arrangement he'd conjured up in his beautiful, tragic head? And all this while Zeke was wanting to touch Casey, touch him and fuck him through the floor, he wanted it so badly it seemed possible that he might actually burn to cinders. There would be nothing left of him but little black bits of carbon.

He was not action guy now; he was in a state of paralysis. His inflamed body was somehow frozen, along with his brain. He couldn't move and he couldn't move away.

Meanwhile, experience had taught Casey that he only had to take the decision out of Zeke's hands. Casey was visibly unconcerned with Zeke's passivity; he casually shed one of the shirts he was wearing, unbuttoning it and throwing it off to the side with a twist of a grin, then pulled his long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, making his strange and wonderful hair stand on end in places. He was wearing the necklace that Sasha had bought him.

Suddenly Zeke could move but it felt as though he were not moving under his own power, as though he were enthralled. He put out a hand to touch the pendant briefly, then moving to touch the hollow of Casey's throat, possibly the most perfect place on his body. He felt Casey shiver. "Case — " he started to whisper.

"Shh." Three fingers strayed across his mouth. They were marshmallow- flavoured.

Absently, he noted that his own shirt was being unbuttoned and slipped off of his shoulders in that matter-of-fact way that was so very much Casey's. Leaving the slightly more problematic issue of getting him out of his sleeves without his participation, Casey undid Zeke's belt instead and opened the front of his pants, letting his fingers brush gently over Zeke's belly. Panting slightly, he put a knee on the bed beside Zeke's thigh, then the opposite knee beside the opposite thigh; Zeke obligingly shifted and braced himself so that Casey could sit without risk of falling off but Casey gave him a little push and he let himself go, falling onto his back.

For such a small person, Casey did a good job of seeming to be everywhere at once. A mouth and hands were roaming Zeke's chest, stroking and sampling; at the same time Casey adjusted his straddle so that Zeke's hard bulge was lined up with his own and he was rocking, using very tiny, humping motions, almost as though he didn't realize he was doing it, making Zeke's body cry more every other second.

Not even a full minute of this torture, and Zeke was nearly broken. Sensing it, Casey stopped moving. He shifted back, settling comfortably in Zeke's lap, doing nothing except keeping his hand moving idly against Zeke's chest. Zeke was drowning, his eyes full of white, white flesh and eyes that seemed to have become a soft, gelatinous blue compelling him to plunge and rampage to his heart's content and he felt a stirring of fear...just a dim, faint tremor of it, and then it was gone.

He gripped Casey's shoulders and sat up to kiss lips that had gone a deep, shining berry red, so moist they seemed to give under his like some sweet, custardy dessert. His hand came up finally, behind Casey's back, and played with a strand of hair at the nape of Casey's neck — and now his other hand was involved too, moving randomly over Casey's torso. He found a nipple and toyed with it, thrilling when Casey arched into his hands and mouth. Casey tore his mouth away and gasped, "Should I take off my pants?"

Zeke nodded, whispered, "Oh, yeah...yes." There was some will in him now; it was the will to do everything and anything to this body that was soon completely bared and falling back on the bed while Zeke shimmied out of shirt and pants and grabbed lube from somewhere, amazed that he even remembered where it was. He threw the tube down on the bed and then laid himself beside Casey's body. His entire crotch felt swollen, absolutely molten and he needed to get off more than he needed to breathe but again there was this disturbance in him, this troublesome thing that tugged and demanded some semblance of absolution before he could have what he wanted.

"I've been horrible to you," he said, throwing a leg over Casey's, getting their erections closer.

"I don't care," Casey returned. He wriggled, fitting his supple and willing body against, almost under, Zeke.

"I'm just saying...This isn't going to make it better."

Zeke raised himself on one elbow so he could watch as possible responses ran across Casey's face. He saw Casey picked through them and decide on the least honest of the bunch.

"I know you're sorry," Casey said.

Zeke didn't say it: No, not sorry. Just sorry that I have to do it. He could have said that and still had Casey upside-down, backwards and sideways, he knew there was no issue there but he couldn't say it and then delude himself that all was forgiven, as he was about to do.

There could be nothing so satisfying as the way that his lover's smooth, solid flesh gave itself into his hand. He pressed one palm down Casey's thigh from knee to groin and stroked Casey's very hot, very hard cock. Casey's body formed a taut bow; he whimpered something. Zeke decided that absolution was overrated. He pushed Casey's leg to the side and reached for the lubricant.

But then as he did, disaster happened. His own erection brushed Casey's thigh and he realized instantly that he was too tightly wound; that slight touch was enough to set him off. A shudder went through him, and a groan, and he was done.

All was still for a moment, apart from Zeke catching his breath. "Fuck," he wheezed, dropping his head onto Casey's chest. "Shit."

Casey moved slightly, unbending his knee so his leg lay flat while his erection continued to jut up. "Yeah," he said, sounding not very happy.

"Hey, don't sound so glum." Zeke shifted, moving his body down the bed so he could get into a convenient position. "I still have lots of toys to play with."

Casey pushed at his shoulders, trying to hold him back. "Wh-what are you doing?" Casey asked.

"I'm going to do something obscene to your cock with my mouth."

The shoving became frantic. "No. I don't want you to."

Zeke disbelieved his ears. "Let me see if I heard you right. You, a guy, are telling me you do not want a blow job."

Scooting out of reach of Zeke's mouth and hands, Casey sat up and pulled up one knee, guarding his most sensitive parts. "I want you to fuck me."

"Well, I can't do that right now, can I?"

"You can in a few minutes, I'll help you get hard again."

So delusion time was over. Zeke also sat up, feeling guilt, relief and a curious sense of defilement all at once. Sure, as a guy he was supposed to be ready to mount anyone at any moment, and not that he found anything unpleasant in the scenario that Casey proposed but he didn't particularly like being treated like a wind- up doll.

"No," he said, enunciating clearly and with conviction.

The responses were fairly predictable. Casey's other knee went up, heels pressing tight against buttocks as he began to quiver. Zeke reached to touch him. He scratched and pushed at Zeke's arm, frantic in his attempts to keep that hand away, staring at Zeke with moist, glowing eyes set in a dead white face and Zeke remembered then what had been scary a few minutes ago: It was Casey himself. Casey was more terrifying than a fistful of alien queens, and Zeke was fucking grateful for his body's betrayal. His body had saved him from making a horrible mistake — but it wasn't going to save him from Casey.

Needing some cover, Zeke got up and pulled on his pants, foregoing underwear for the moment. He pulled on his wrinkled shirt with short, jerky motions. Through it all, he didn't hear a sound behind him and his skin crawled, almost expecting an attack while his back was turned.

He turned and found Casey in the exact same posture as a moment ago. "Case," he started, and realized he had nothing to say.

Casey's entire posture embodied vulnerability even as the voice that came from him was unyielding and cold. "You want me to beg? I'll do it."

"No," Zeke said. "I don't want that."

"Then don't make me."

"Casey."

"You were okay with doing me...you were just fine with it."

"I know, and I was wrong."

"Oh, it's wrong. I see...as long as you get off first."

Zeke could not look away; this was too important, it was a matter of principle, of being correct. He said, "You're right. It's not fair to you at all but if we were banging away right now, it would still be a mistake. And since you're not willing to do it any other way...I think it would be best if we both got dressed."

"Prick."

"Yes. I am. But I'm also right."

Those words rang around the room, falling into a terrible silence. Then Casey was scrambling to the end of the bed and off. Zeke understood quickly that Casey was looking for something to destroy. He followed Casey's eye line to the piles of library books and managed to get between them and Casey but only after Casey had toppled the first one. Stepping protectively in front of what was left, Zeke put a hand out, flat on Casey's chest. "Don't you fucking dare," he warned.

In response, Casey grabbed one book that had been sitting open on top of the desk and threw it across the room, against the wall.

Zeke replied by throwing his arms around Casey, pinning his arms to his sides. "Don't," he ordered.

"Let go." Casey was trying to break out of his Zeke-prison, without much success. He fought and squirmed and elbowed, imprinting injury after injury on both of them. "Let...go!" he grunted.

Zeke just held on, squeezing Casey tighter and tighter as his personal ire rose higher and higher. He'd had enough with tantrums from nineteen — fuck, almost twenty — year-olds, even if they were emotionally disturbed through no real fault of their own, and they were dealing with the aftermath of a horrible relationship...and they were mesmerizing and he loved them so much he thought he might explode from it but Zeke was not going to put up with it this time. Casey could fight until they were both wrecked from head to foot.

"Not...until...you stop," Zeke spat back.

Impossibly, their doorbell rang.

For some peculiar reason Casey went limp, like he was actually not too far gone to think about what a guest might think if they saw him and Zeke having a domestic dispute. Maybe he was just picking the opportune moment to give up. Or maybe he was tired too.

As the bell rang again, Zeke loosened the barrier he had made around Casey so as to test his compliance. "I'm going to answer it," he said. For a few moments he remained poised to tighten his control as needed, and when there was no violence, not even motion, he let his arms fall. He stepped carefully around Casey and suggested, "Why don't you put on some clothes while I'm doing that?"

Walking down the hall to the front door, he muttered as many swear words as he could fit into once sentence. It had to be Stokely at the door, wanting to check in on them although he had to wonder why she hadn't just phoned. Okay, it could be Stan, or maybe Sasha had come home early and forgotten his keys for some reason —

It was not Stokely. It was not Stan.

Winona.

"This is so not a good time," he blurted, not even thinking to censor himself in his dismay and down-right annoyance at seeing her there. Then she lifted swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and he was obligated to feel some regret.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I called several times and there was no answer so I thought...thought I'd just try coming over."

Zeke shot a look at the answering machine, just to his right. The digital four was illuminated in red, right in plain sight. Neither he nor Casey had bothered to look, and if Sasha had seen it, he hadn't felt the need to mention it.

"What's up?" he said. He thought he sounded almost casual.

"I'm — " Winona bit her lip, chin quivering. "Having a bad day here." She set her shoulders then and said, "I know it's a holiday and it's pretty cheeky for me to just show up like this and you can tell me to take a hike if you want but I have to ask...Can I come in, please?"

Zeke didn't mind if she saw his reluctance, because she really had come at the most awful time imaginable. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to find Casey behind him. There was no one there, though, and that helped to decide him on a temporary course of action.

"Okay," he allowed. He stepped back a bit so that she could come in, not letting her any further than just inside the door. He remained just there, blocking her access. "What's up?" he asked again.

Winona peered around him. He couldn't fault her for that; Casey's presence was thick in the apartment. "Where's Casey?" she asked.

"He's around. Not to be rude, but was there something you wanted to ask me?"

Her reddened eyes teared up right in front of him. "Can I take you out for a beer?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Just for a little while?"

"No. It can't happen...not today, sorry."

"Then can...could I just talk to you for a few minutes?"

Again he hesitated, wishing that she would feel so uncomfortable and unwanted that she would leave. But she didn't budge; if she did feel unwanted, her need for an ear, even a not-quite-willing ear, was the bigger factor. It was bizarre that he had suddenly become everyone's emotional dumping-ground, it made no sense to him because he was not an empathic guy, never had been.

But to deny her completely seemed a much greater cruelty than he could inflict on anyone at that moment, especially since it would be so easy not to be cruel. Some people got everything so twisted and wretched that every move you made, even if it was correct, caused them pain. As difficult and inconvenient as this was, he could talk to Winona for ten minutes and send her on her way, and if he never saw her again he would at least know that he hadn't been a prick to her.

"Wait here for a sec," he told her.

He went down the hall to the bedroom with no idea what to expect. Some kind of jealous rage perhaps, or a personality shift — certainly not Casey sitting on the floor beside the bed, facing the door. He was wearing his pants but nothing else, and he had formed himself into a ball of half-naked flesh. He was gaping up at Zeke with an expression that defied understanding. It was that thing that Zeke had occasionally seen in him and dreaded, but now increased to a power of ten. It was terror, it was rage, and it was a despair so complete that anyone seeing it had to know that this person could actually be dangerous because they had nothing left to lose.

"Don't let her in," Casey said. He was shaking so that Zeke could actually see his knees knocking.

Frowning, Zeke shut the bedroom door and knelt down beside Casey. "Just for a few minutes?"

"No, why did you open it — ?"

"She was there, Case, I'm sorry, she looks really upset and she's begging to — "

"Don't," Casey pleaded, catching his sleeve.

"I'm not going anywhere, but she asked to talk to me for a few minutes and I thought we could just — "

"No."

"— go up on the roof and talk for a short while and then she'll leave."

"No!"

"Casey," Zeke said in a low voice. "The woman is crying at our doorstep."

"I don't care. She can't come in."

"Quiet, she'll hear you."

"She can't come in!"

Zeke took hold of one of Casey's arms. "Listen to me. She's already in."

"No!" Casey shrilled. He yanked his arm away, and then for good measure he kicked out, catching Zeke in the shin.

Being hit with a bare foot shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Repressing his yelp of pain, Zeke stood. "Okay, good. Now I've got you having hysterics here and someone else having hysterics out there. I don't know what you want me to do but I know what she wants. I'm going to go talk to someone I can make a difference to. I'm going to allow her to walk through the kitchen and up to the roof. I'll talk to you later."

"Zeke."

Zeke couldn't ignore that small, desperate sound; he turned to see that Casey was struggling onto his bare feet and looking as though he were going to follow Zeke. "What are you doing?" Zeke asked.

"You can't be alone with her...she...she has to be watched."

Fucking hell. Zeke could actually see his skin move with tremors, muscles twitching and spasming beneath the dreadful pallor.

"No, Casey," he commanded, trying to sound much stronger than he felt. He just had to take one thing at a time. He would deal with Winona and then he would try and tackle his lover's raging psychosis. "Stay here. I won't be long."

"No but sh-she can't be...you can't..."

"Just chill, okay?"

Casey shuddered, visibly trying to get a grip, but he insisted, "She shouldn't be in here."

"But she is." Zeke gripped Casey's bare shoulders to emphasize his next demand. "And I want you to stay in here, Casey. I'll only be a few minutes, understand?"

If Casey had been someone else's boyfriend, Zeke would have been impressed by the magnificent combination of emotions that was his expression right now. He tore himself from Zeke's grip, looking absolutely extreme and operatic, like he could have spat on Zeke and showered him with tears at the same time. "Go on," Casey said. "Hang with...with her, t-talk to...to her."

"How about just for once you cut me some fucking slack?" Casey didn't answer, and Zeke felt pretty certain that no slack was being cut. He lifted his hands in frustration. "I'm not Roy, Casey. I'm just not."

"Oh, I know."

It was delivered in a smarmy, sneering tone that was intended to let Zeke know exactly how he fell short of Roy. Anger consumed whatever was left of compassion and reason, and Zeke snarled in return, "Okay. I'll talk to her for a while and I expect you to stay in this fucking room. After that we're going to sit down and make a list of things that are different between me and Roy."

"Why don't you tell me one thing now," Casey gritted. "Something to cling to while you're up there getting cozy with her."

"Sure." Zeke leaned in, and grabbed Casey, yanked him so close that Casey should be able to feel his breath as he ground out his reply: "I wouldn't marry some woman even though I was gay and then keep my fucktoy on the side." With that, he released Casey — okay, maybe pushed him a little but not all that hard — and wheeled around to leave the room. He didn't need to stick around to see Casey's face right now because he knew that if he did his triumph would be instantly crushed. As it was, the narcotic of self-administered vindication lasted only a few seconds. There was still anger, which he was not ready to relinquish just yet.

He was stomping back to the front door, and he never stomped. He was just so fucking tired of this crap. He could take the tears and the traumas but he could not take the false accusations — because they were false. If there was one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was people walking around believing things that weren't the facts even when they'd been told the facts. Repeatedly. Being actively delusional was no excuse.

Winona was exactly where he'd left her — she could follow instructions, at least — and from her face Zeke could imagine that she'd heard pretty much everything. "Okay," he said, his voice harsh. "We'll go up on the roof."

"Zeke...I'm sorry to be such a pest."

"It's okay," he said, almost not lying. "Things can get kinda rough, I know."

It wasn't really a question but she took it as one. "Yeah. This entire month's been crap. First Greg dumped me and my room-mate Tabitha, she's driving me batty and now it's exams coming, I'm probably going to fail everything..."

Something told Zeke to turn and look back to where he'd just come from. Casey was standing in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, visible only from where Zeke stood. He was still barefoot, but he had put on the ratty X-Files t-shirt that he often slept in and he was just standing there and looking at Zeke. There was no question that he'd heard Winona's lament in its entirety, lack of boyfriend included.

"Um...you want to go upstairs?" Zeke suggested to her. "I'll be there in a sec."

Winona blinked at the suddenness of it, and then nodded. As she moved into the kitchen her sight line changed; she caught sight of Casey and started. "Oh, shit! Casey! Man, you scared me!"

Not even blinking, Casey stared at her. Then, without expression or a wordof reply, he slipped back into the bedroom. The door slammed.

"Ouch," Winona remarked sourly. "Should I go?"

Zeke shook his head and said, "Just go up." He pointed to the ceiling, keenly looking forward to being on the roof now — he could use the air if nothing else. He followed her up.

The chill felt wonderful on his overheated face, and the first thing he did was light a cigarette, inhaling so deeply that he could feel each individual tube and alveoli all the way to the bottom of his lungs curling up and screaming. The poisons flooding his body brought back some sanity, maybe even a scrap of patience. Only after two or three really ass-kicking hauls on his smoke did he notice that Winona was standing fairly distant, away from their sad little garden and the illumination provided by the light over the door. She was almost in the dark. "What are you doing over there?"

She came a bit closer. "I dunno, you were having a private moment with your cig."

"Oh." Zeke rubbed his neck. "Why did you have to mention your boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry, Zeke, it was just...why not mention it because it did happen and I didn't know he was standing there...and Zeke, I really only want us to be friends."

"I know."

"Casey doesn't though, he won't even say hi to me. He hates me and that's not fair."

Zeke couldn't muster a defense of Casey at the moment. The best he could come up with was, "It's not personal."

"I dunno about that." Winona smiled wistfully.

"Believe it." Zeke folded into one of the chairs and sucked back some smoke. His anger was beginning to fade a little, mellowing into what was merely an intense feeling of frustration. "The last person Casey was with was keeping a woman on the side and lying to him about how involved he was with her."

"And how involved was he?"

"He married her."

"Pretty involved, then."

"Yeah." Tipping ashes, Zeke asked, "So why did you want to talk to me so badly?"

"Oh...well, um...just everything getting to me. Mostly my kid."

"Mm hmm."

"I guess I never really told you about this. See, Aaron's lived with his grandmother most of his life and he barely knows me."

"Hmm." Zeke was deliberately trying to avoid commentary, so as to avoid lengthening this conversation.

"I had him when I was sixteen. I told you that, eh?"

"Yeah."

"But I didn't tell you the part where I ran off when Aaron was only eight months old." Winona's voice shuddered. Zeke held his breath, hoping she wouldn't cry because he wouldn't know what to do. Didn't they know that he just wasn't any good with people in general? "I can't say it was because I was drinking or doing drugs — although I was. I just felt overwhelmed and I met this guy, he was twenty-two and he seemed so cool...I took off with him. I left my baby with my mother." Winona took a deep breath, lifting her head. "It's the most terrible thing I've ever done...well, obviously. I figure lots of people would say I'm a terrible person too — but it took me years to get my act together and work up the courage to go back to school. I was practically homeless for a few years there...basically, I was a stupid, screwed-up kid."

She left a pause that Zeke was probably supposed to fill. "Lots of people used to be stupid, screwed-up kids," he said. "Some of us still are."

"I thought...You're in your twenties, aren't you?"

"Twenty-three next week, actually. But I've done my share of dicking around."

"You seem so together, so...I mean, you strike me as kind of wise. I thought you were older. I think that's why I've been hanging around. There's a part of me that's still that kid looking for a mentor, you know?"

"I guess," Zeke smiled, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be all gushy...but I am."

"It's okay."

"I'm probably expecting too much of Aaron, aren't I? I mean, he can't possibly forgive me."

"Well..."

"I just sort of reappeared two years ago. I've been trying to get closer to him but...god. It's so hard." Just when Zeke thought the crisis had been averted, Winona broke down and began to cry. "My mother is doing everything in her power to make him hate me!"

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He didn't know how to begin to wade in and he didn't particularly want to apply himself to the problem. This was an entire life history full of serious, personal shit, and he had a couple of those on his hands already.

Winona rattled on, "I wanted to go to Vancouver for Canadian Thanksgiving but she told me some story about how they were going to a friend's and it would be too awkward to invite me. So then I was...talking to her for the last month about going up for American Thanksgiving weekend, just to spend some time with them and then all of a sudden she says Aaron doesn't want me