The phone of Dr. Helen Yves rang, and again rang, and now still it rang while Casey abided desperately at the other end. No answer, she wasn't fucking answering and he must not have gotten this right after all. Or maybe he had dialled right but that sequence wasn't hers, because she wasn't so stupid as to give that kind of information to a freak like him, she was a professional who kept her life separate from those of her patients.

At last, someone picked up. "Hello?" said a young child of non-specific gender.

But she wouldn't have lied about something like that, would she? No, she wouldn't jerk him around. If she hadn't wanted to give him her home phone number, she would have just said so.

"Are you there?" asked the little boy-girl at the other end. "Hello?"

"Uh...h-hi. May I..." His hands had become unsteady he had to clutch the phone to ensure that it didn't fall out of his grip. "...s-speak to...Helen Yves?"

"Just a minute." The child shouted into Casey's ear: "Gramma! It's for you!"

This was followed by not quite dead air — a hum, and the soft, vague scrapes of sound — while Casey reeled with the knowledge that Dr. Yves was a grandparent. It did make some sense, and she was certainly old enough, but he had never imagined her having an ordinary existence outside the office. For some reason it seemed improbable to him that she would go shopping for dolls and candy to spoil the grandkids, or chit-chat with a friend or husband about things like roof repair and what to have for dinner. She couldn't do all that and yet she must. He saw her now, dressed in whatever polyester abomination she wore for leisure, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn maybe, getting ready to watch The Lion King or...or...god, fuck, his brain was blanking and no way would he be able to speak to her and make sense. He might as well hang up now.

"What is it?" Casey's dad asked. "What's happening?"

It was an effort to raise his head and look at the man who was not budging from his sentinel position beside the bed. Frank Connor appeared more or less as he ever did — only a bit more flushed in the face than usual, and Casey couldn't know what to expect from him. He did know the Frank Connor who had given him disgusted stares across the family dinner table, the man whom night after night would become one with his recliner in front of the TV. That man's actions, Casey could easily predict. This other version of Frank Connor did things like apologizing to his gay son, and kicking down bathroom doors to prove that he cared. This guy was pretty much a question mark.

The paradox of his father's behaviour was something Casey just couldn't process at the moment; he cast his eyes down again, catching them on the crumpled blankets and sheets. Trying to distract himself, he started stroking some of the ridges and valleys with his hand, working them smooth — just as there was a crackling and motion across the line, the sort of noises that presaged someone picking up the phone. He only had time for a quick gulp of air and then she was speaking to him.

"Helen Yves."

The cadence of those few syllables said she would make sense of the nonsense, cut through the chaos — and oh, how he wanted to believe it. Well, there was no question that she would try. People always tried according to their best judgment. He just had to wonder what this round of helping would feel like, if it would hurt as much as Zeke's recent efforts. If so, he wasn't sure that he would survive it.

"Hello?" she said, a bit more loudly.

"Dr. Yves," he croaked, unable to prevent himself from tumbling headlong into the trap. It might very well turn out to be his worst mistake, letting himself be helped by her. Maybe this was just what she had waited for, him giving her that much power. Slap the alien-boy with a committal and a straightjacket, shut him up so They can take over the world in peace...

"Casey?"

"Yeah — 'm sorry, you're busy — "

She sounded completely serene, unperturbed by his evident distress. "It's all right, Casey. What's going on?"

"I..." he faltered, his throat clogged with word matter. Suddenly there was ambivalent support for him in the form of a meaty grip on his shoulder; the unanticipated touching jarred him, made him tremble. Still, he didn't wish to reject it so he stayed put somehow and stammered, "Dr. Yves, I...I'm..."

"Yes, Casey. Go on."

"You don't mind?"

"Just tell me what's wrong."

"I'm...I'm scared."

"Why are you scared?"

"I just...I mean, Zeke left and... and since then I've been... having thoughts that scare me..."

"What sort of thoughts, Casey?"

There were no words to describe the kind of infernal black that had taken up residence within him, to articulate how it felt to contemplate choices that were all bad, all terrifying, trying to formulate a new route of escape while the old strategies — ignoring, obliviating, avoiding — weren't feasible anymore and even if they had been, even if he could ignore the awfulness for a while it would still be there waiting when he came back. He wouldn't escape it because the reality was that he was the sludge. Embrace himself or stop being himself, those were the options.

"Casey? What sort of thoughts are you having?"

"Like...it hurts too much and I..." Casey squeezed his eyelids shut, longing for a proper void in which to lose himself. "Like I'm nothing, like I'm...so filthy..."

"Did you hurt yourself, Casey?"

"No."

"Were you thinking about hurting yourself?"

Still in his makeshift darkness, he whispered, "I was thinking about ways to do it but — but I'm scared. I don't want to die, it just hurts so much...I don't know what to do."

Far outside him, his father's presence remained. The hand clamped down even harder, the pressure on his shoulder increasing to a welcome discomfort.

"Is there anyone with you now, Casey?"

"Yes...my dad."

"He's there right now?"

"S-standing here...he came back with me, after...after Christmas."

That last word nearly choked him. "Christmas" had become a terrible sound, a cacophony of everything that had happened since he had last spoken to her. It was his disastrous behaviour, it was his lies, his betrayal of Zeke...It was Zeke telling him he wanted to go to Los Angeles by himself, basically wanting Casey out of his sight. Casey thought he might gag on the discord of his emotions; he pressed a fist against his mouth, trying not to sob out loud.

"And Sasha?" Dr. Yves asked.

"He — he had to go to work — " Casey bit down on his knuckle, relishing the focus that it provided, and stared at a point on the computer desk. A piece of crumpled cellophane, probably from a package of Zeke's cigarettes, became his focal point. "He had to, Dr. Yves, he's going to lose his job — and it'll be my fault — "

"That's not true," his father muttered, his fingers flexing on Casey's shoulder.

"What about Zeke?" asked Yves. "You said he left."

"He — he went to Los Angeles."

"That was planned, was it not?"

"Yeah...but I was supposed to go with him."

"He will be back in a few days, though?"

Forcing himself to utter what he didn't believe, he answered, "He said he was coming back but it doesn't matter, he..." hatesmehatesmehatesmesorryforwhatIdid toolatetoolatefor sorry... "Dr. Yves..."

"Yes, Casey?"

"I'm sorry..." Hmm, well, wasn't that was fucking repetitive...and he knew he was making too many apologies, people always got annoyed by that but he couldn't tell from her voice how she felt, never could tell when she might be angry at him. She sounded just as she always did so she really could be feeling anything right now. Anger seemed quite likely as far as he was concerned...especially when he'd called her home, invaded her personal life.

"For what?"

His throat was so tight, he could barely slip words past it. "For — bugging you at home wh-when you're on holiday."

"It's all right, Casey. I'm very glad you called, you did the right thing. That was why I gave you my number. Now tell me...are you thinking you still might hurt yourself in some way?"

"I...I don't know."

"Let me put it this way...do you have a plan?"

"A plan?"

"Have you chosen a method of killing yourself, have you organized the means...?"

"Not really...I started looking through the medicine cabinet but I just...realized I couldn't..." Casey relived the horror of imagining how his father and Sasha would feel upon discovering that he had let them down and how, yes, even Zeke would suffer. They would all be consumed by guilt, even over such a thing as he was, because they had wanted to help him. They were invested in him...and hopelessly fucked as he was, that made them double fucked.

"All right," came Yves' brisk voice, unaware that he was dissolving in tears yet again. "Here's what I want you to..." As she spoke he let the phone fall away from his ear; it remained in his hand, lying limp against his thigh. In a moment or two Yves' voice sounded audibly, carrying across Seattle. "Casey...are you there? Casey?"

His father spoke softly, kneading his shoulder. "She's trying to talk to you, Casey."

He shook his head for no good reason, just to convey his general state of despair, and lifted the phone to his ear. "Dr. Yves..."

"Casey? I was afraid that you had hung up."

"I'm h-here."

"Don't give up on yourself, Casey, we can work through this." Dr. Yves paused, probably waiting for him to agree and when he didn't she prompted, "You believe that, don't you?"

"Guess so."

"I do wish that we had discussed what we would do in this sort of situation before you went away, but that's okay. We'll just sort it out now — "

The outcome that he'd been dreading was now transforming from the possible to the probable. He could sense it, almost feel the restraints closing around his limbs as his body prepared to prove that it could still throw a very impressive panic party. "Don't, please," he blurted.

"What's that?" she said.

"Don't make me."

"Don't make you what, Casey?"

"I don't want to go to the hospital, I...I couldn't...please, don't."

Dr. Yves went quiet again, and he supposed that she was taking notes, keeping track for the review board. Or perhaps she was simply preparing to deliver the bad news...Sorry, Casey but you are clearly a danger to yourself... Sounding even more careful than the norm for her, Yves hedged, "A hospital would not be a bad idea. There are some very good clinics in Seattle that specialize in crisis and recovery..."

"No," he whispered.

She didn't miss a beat. "...and of course, there are two ways to get you into one of them. You could admit yourself voluntarily, or I could recommend an involuntary assessment of seventy-two hours, which could lead to a longer stay. I understand you have experience with this...last summer, yes?"

"I don't remember," he murmured, which was true. He had little recall of the events in question; his first clear memory was of waking up in the hospital and being told that he'd already been there for several days. He wouldn't deny that there were bits in his mind about doctors and nurses and emergency rooms, pieces of a lost narrative in which he'd barely been sentient, but he had no intention of acknowledging them for fear that it would be construed as agreement to a second round.

"Well," she responded, her tone unchanged. "To order that kind of assessment, I would need to believe that you are in imminent danger — and I'll be honest with you, Casey, some doctors wouldn't hesitate at this moment."

"But...what about you?"

"In terms of emotional and personal impact, there's a huge difference between me making the decision to commit you, and you admitting yourself. I would really prefer it if you chose to go in, even if just for a couple of nights — "

"I don't want to!" So many people, all strangers, all unpredictable and they would touch him whenever they thought it was necessary, he remembered that from before, the doctors and nurses and orderlies had always put their hands on him like they had a right to it. Clinic or hospital — whatever you called it, if he went there he would lose control sooner or later, and however it started it would end bad and then there'd be hands all over him, no one asking just doing what they thought was best...and They would get him for sure then because he'd be defenseless.

"I hear you, Casey," she said.

Casey shivered and heard the bed creak a little; he realized that he was rocking it with small, agitated pulses of motion, still crying and fuck if he wasn't beyond pathetic, not that she didn't know it and not that she couldn't hear him snivelling. He stilled himself as best he could. "Dr. Yves," he sniffled. "If I go there it will be bad... it won't help me. You know it won't."

Her sigh travelled clearly across the line. "All right. I admit I'm not sure that it would be the best place for you right now. But if you..."

Her words were lost in a white wave of reaction and he struggled to fight it down, to pay attention. He needed to act steady and sane, and that was act as in do whatever it took to make sure he didn't go to a hospital, he would die if that happened. "...are you with me, Casey?"

"Yeah," he said, wiping futilely at the damp of tears and snot. His father suddenly released his shoulder and lurched from the room. He stared after the retreating form with its turtleneck and knit shirt, finding that he wanted to call them back. "Sorry, I...what did you say?"

"I need you to listen to me, Casey. It's important that you're able to follow instructions and problem-solve with me on this."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Are you listening now?"

"Yes."

"I want to see you tomorrow morning in my office. Will you do that?"

His father was back, and with a box of tissues; Casey snagged one and blew his nose. "Yeah."

"At...let's say at ten. I'm afraid I can't make it much earlier than that, I have my grandchildren here and I have to make arrangements...and I have to drive in."

"Kay."

"But you must promise me that between now and then you will do nothing to harm yourself. Will you promise me that, Casey?"

He nodded at first, then remembered that she couldn't see it and answered out loud, "Okay."

"Will you say it for me, please?"

"I promise I won't...hurt myself."

"Good. Now I'd like to speak to your father, please."

"Why?"

"I'm going to ask him to do some things to help you. I assume he's aware of what's going on right now?"

"Yes." Casey jerked the phone away from his ear, told his father, "She wants to talk to you."

At just about any other time in his life, his dad's response would have been quite funny; the older man's eyes grew to twice their normal size and he said, "She wants to talk to me?" just as he might have said, "The I.R.S. is auditing me?" But he willingly took the phone from Casey, sitting down beside him on the rumpled bed. "Hello? Yes, this is Frank Connor."

While his father took on the unwanted necessity of speaking to a psychiatrist, Casey hauled all his limbs into the smallest space possible. He wondered if he was in shock, or at least in hypothermia. Deep in the muscle and bone, he ached; he was weak to his core and exhausted from his brief conversation but as much as he longed for sleep, he knew there would be no rest for him tonight. Sleep was not the unequivocal retreat that it had once been, not when dreams were suddenly lurking there, taking moments and memories of profound and frightening beauty and turning them into straight-out horrors.

"Yes, I'm aware of it...uh huh...uh huh...I can do that...yes...all right...oh...oh...yes, all right..."

It was sounding like his father's part of the call was concluded — until he suddenly went quiet. Casey watched his father's body clench and his face diffuse to an alarming shade of almost-purple in response to whatever Yves was saying to him.

"I...uh...will," his father said, strangling those couple of syllables. "Thank you, Doctor...um, Yves." The phone was handed back to Casey. "Here."

Casey blinked at him and told himself that he didn't care to know what had had such an impact on his father. It was nothing to do with him.

"Casey?" said Dr. Yves' voice.

"Uh-huh."

"How do you feel now? Do you feel any more calm than before?"

"Yeah."

"That's good, but just as a precaution, I've asked your father to collect all the pills and medications in the house and flush them down the toilet...that's not including the Paxil and Klonopin, of course. You need to keep taking those."

"Okay," Casey whispered, not holding it against her. It was probably just as much to give his father something to do as anything else.

Yves continued, " I've also asked him to collect all the sharp objects he can find — but I'm counting on you here, Casey. I know how smart you are, and I know that if you were really determined, you could get around your father. It's important that you're committed to showing up tomorrow."

The seriousness of her tone was a definitive warning and he knew that he had to do better if he wanted to stay out of the hospital. "I..." he said, trying to force conviction into it. "... have to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"I feel better since talking to you, Dr. Yves."

"I'm very pleased to hear it, Casey, but it's still important to me that you make that promise to show up tomorrow. Because a lot of things can happen in a few hours, and I believe you when you say that you're hurting."

"But I...I'm not suicidal," he said, and pondered the enigma that he sounded offended when he didn't feel offended at all. If anything, he had the impression that she was perfectly in the right to be cautious. "Not really..."

"I understand you, Casey, but I have a professional responsibility in this situation. This isn't just about your physical safety, it's about what's best for your emotional well-being in the long run. I've told your father that if you appear to be in danger or if you do try anything that he is to call 9-1-1 immediately. If that happens, your situation could be out of my hands for quite some time...I don't think either of us wants that."

That sounded like a threat although he couldn't quite work out how. He wondered if it was proper for her to say this, and if she would divulge everything she knew of him when asked by these other, terrifying doctors, tell them that the kid was delusional, possibly violent. That was her prerogative, he supposed. Confidentiality would go by the wayside if and when it turned out that he was a dangerous and self- destructive monster.

"Do you understand, Casey?"

"Yes."

"Good. So you'll be there tomorrow."

"Yes."

"That's excellent. And I'd like your father to be at part of the session. Sasha too, if he can."

Casey glanced up at his father, who appeared to be deep in thought. "Oh."

"They don't need to be there the whole time. Essentially, what's going to happen tomorrow is that I will be assessing you to determine whether you should be at home or in a more controlled environment. The support you have from family and friends is a crucial part of that assessment."

Instantly, the seep of general exhaustion built up to a flood of panic. "But — you said you wouldn't — "

"I'm not forcing anything to happen right now. I can't make promises, but I'll tell you this. I'm not the kind of doctor who resorts to involuntary committal easily...only if it really is the only option left. I'll try other ways first, and the fact that we're having this conversation right now instead of me calling for help should tell you something. But I still have to see you in person and talk with you."

Panic crashed and despair drowned Casey. He should just give up, tell her to send the man with the straight-jacket. Once she found out everything, he would have to be shipped off for the "professional care" that his father and Sasha couldn't provide. And she would find out just about everything, regardless of what he was actually willing to tell her. For starters, he was sure that she understood things about him that he hadn't figured out himself. And, undoubtedly, she would discover how often he could snap and go medieval on anyone who brushed up against him, even inadvertently. Such as he had done to Winona

— although the W-Monster had been trying to take Zeke from him and she did hate him and it wasn't exactly an accident that she had been in his face, she'd put herself there and thought she could get away with it —

A warbling alerted him that he was being spoken to. "Um...what?" he asked.

Yves repeated herself patiently. "I said, I'm looking forward to seeing you at ten tomorrow, Casey. Try and get some sleep."

"Yeah," Casey echoed with bitter amusement. "Sleep."

"Good night, Casey. Take care."

"Yeah..."

Everything was all wrong — but too bad, so sad, too late because she had hung up and it would be off to the loony bin with him soon enough. He'd wanted her to make it all stop, and now she would do that one way or another. And to think that he'd set this in motion himself, god, but he was fucking brilliant. He should never have told her, never trusted her. Zeke had been right...

He thumbed the talk button, disconnecting.

Zeke Tyler was always right.

Except when he wasn't. Sometimes he was just an arrogant dictator with his You will go to therapy and you'll like it...you won't talk about the aliens...you will talk about your sex life but you won't have sex... you will tell me what happened to you and you will be the victim that I say you are... the fuck, how could he tell Casey what to do and what to tell his own therapist, how did he dare refuse sex to Casey after all the times Casey had been there for his use, made himself available and open at all times, shut off his opinions and his wants and his anger...yeah, it was a good thing Zeke wasn't here. If Zeke were here he'd punch him or otherwise make him bleed and...and...no, not make him bleed, not hurt Zeke when he missed and wanted Zeke so bad, he wanted Zeke to touch him, to fuck him again...so long since the last time now. Zeke hadn't been right about that, he hadn't...if Zeke hadn't decreed an end to their sex life everything would be different at this moment. It was Zeke's fucking fault he was so fucking fucked up.

"So..." his dad said.

"You'd better clean out the medicine cabinet," Casey blurted, and then some dark impulse that was just one more revelation to him took hold and squeezed out a further statement: "Not that there's much in there."

His father's eyes widened. He took a step even as he spoke — "You'll stay here?" With that step there was a grimace of discomfort, and that was when Casey comprehended that the lurch he had observed earlier was actually a limp. It looked like his father had damaged his foot kicking the door down, and if Casey understood that if he wanted to be generous he should really not move around too much. If he didn't let his poor parent keep track of him, the man might get the impression that he was plotting something.

"Dad," he murmured. Perverse as he was in most respects, he liked to think that he wasn't malicious. He had no desire to make his dad chase him with a bum foot. "You're hurt."

"I'll deal with it later," his father replied shortly, and proceeded with his mission.

Over the next several minutes Casey stayed put and listened to thumping and rummaging in the bathroom, then the kitchen...which inevitably involved the removal of Sasha's collection of knives. Never mind the damage to the bathroom door and the mess of wood splinters, Sasha was going to be mega-angry about his stuff being tampered with. Some of those utensils were top of the line and super-expensive, and Casey just hoped that his dad was merely hiding them somewhere, not disposing of them altogether. He couldn't imagine that his dad would be that stupid...but all the same Sasha was not going to be at all pleased that his equipment was being compromised. Sasha liked everything just so, a proverbial place for everything and everything in its place. Casey just didn't know what he could do about it. What he did know was that if he lost Sasha as well as Zeke then he was fucked, promises to Yves aside.

Very shortly, he heard what had to be the sound of pills being flushed down the toilet.

Casey inched backward on the unmade, mussed bed, compacting himself against the headboard. Maybe he should just run. Otherwise, by this time tomorrow he could be locked up for all time. Once the doctors conferred and compared notes they would see how it was meant to be — since he was a defective human being who couldn't manage alone — and he wouldn't have a fucking chance of getting out.

Shifting his head slightly, he spotted the phone lying a few feet away in a cleft between two ridges of bedspread.

Zeke hadn't forbidden him to call. He would be disgusted and revolted by Casey's weakness of course, but he hadn't forbidden it. And Casey just wanted to hear Zeke's voice...hear that maybe Zeke was not as angry with him now, maybe in a much better mood than he had been when he left him at the airport. Or if Zeke was not feeling more receptive it didn't matter, he would take whatever Zeke wanted to give him. Say what you like, do whatever you want, he would beg, just come back.

The phone leapt into his hand. Zeke's cell number seemed to glow out of the keypad, crying out for contact with his fingers. Once again, numbers and ringing ruled his world for a time...leading inexorably to the robotic recording that filled his ears: "The number you are calling is not in service."

Time continued on, well past the moment of devastation despite his best efforts to stop it. His vision cleared and found him amazed that he hadn't done something monstrous. When that haze lifted he should have been sitting amidst the shards of another destroyed phone, or a destroyed something — but he wasn't. He was still hanging there with the phone against his ear and the female drone driving it home.

"...the number you are calling is not in service...the number you are calling does not exist...the person you are trying to contact is unavailable because you, Casey Connor, are a lying, betraying piece of shit and it's nothing less than you deserve..."

And without Zeke, the burden of him would fall upon others, it would grow and expand until he was completely unmanageable. He couldn't stop it. He was nothing now that Zeke had left — but Zeke had left because he was nothing so it shouldn't be a surprise, hadn't Casey always been a piece of dirt fucking slag whore good for only one thing but still not good enough for her —

"...the number you are calling..."

With his forehead against his knees and the phone clutched against his heart, Casey battled the full volley of hysterical sobs that were rattling in his chest. The crazies were running amok with him now and he could only stay put, be a good boy and do as he was told. He could only try to last until tomorrow and surely now would be one of those moments when Xanax was okay, surely... You'll know when, Zeke had told his father and Casey figured his father only had to take a look at him and he'd know. Now was the time.

His father re-entered the room, slightly out of breath. "Okay," he said. "That's done." He saw Casey holding the phone pressed against his body. "Who were you talking to?"

"service, not in service, not in service...the number you are calling is..."

"No one," Casey whispered, and hung up, dropping the phone on the bed.

"So what now?" his father asked.

"Don't s-suppose you..."

"Don't suppose I what?"

"I — could I have — a Xanax?"

His father put on a confused expression. "Excuse me?"

"The Xanax. Little white fucking pills. Zeke gave them to you."

His father grimaced, cocking his head at a confused angle. "They're gone, Casey."

Casey found himself with his stomach flattened against his raised knees, as though he were guarding some gaping void. "Gone? What do you mean they're gone?"

"Dr. Yves said to flush all the pills."

"But not my medications," Casey said. The flatness of his voice surprised him.

Now his father wore an expression that was bewildered unto desperation. "She didn't mention Xanax, just the other two...anyway, I don't know if I would be comfortable giving you one of those...now."

Casey didn't comment on that, but not out of any noble impulse to recognize an honest mistake and appreciate that his father was just trying to help. There were simply too many ugly things in Casey's mind for him to sort them out and pick one. Hunching even further, he said, "I...never did..."

"What's that?"

It seemed that he was mumbling. He made the supreme effort to straighten up and to speak out. "Never did get my shower."

Rather than get alarmed, his father crossed his arms and said, "Ten minutes, that's it. And then I really think you should have something to eat."

"If you say so."

This transformed the parental mask of confusion to plain startlement.

Still cradling his belly, Casey intoned, "Can't starve myself overnight, can I? Might as well eat. And it's not like the bathroom door would keep anyone out." He knew very well he was being a shit, but he couldn't seem to stop it.

It took a few seconds, but his father answered, speaking in a voice that trembled. "Dr. Yves said that you might try to test me."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"She also said I... I shouldn't let you push me around."

Somehow, Casey's brain was still trying to process the mystery of Frank Connor, chanting the words like that would make them into something he could accept as true...I shouldn't let you push me around. I shouldn't let you push me around... So then Casey had always been the abusive one by refusing to be a football-playing, muscle freak with the I.Q. of a jock strap, by insisting on being gay even after his father made it perfectly clear how he disapproved of it...and always saying and doing those horribly embarrassing things, talking about stuff he shouldn't talk about and getting their good family name in the news.

"Oh, right," he whispered. "I'm just such a bully."

"No, no, I didn't mean..." His father shook his head, opened and closed his mouth and his eyelids. "I'm not saying it right. She was talking about feeling guilty about...about things."

Casey considered a gracious response: But you don't need to feel guilty, Dad...except he didn't feel like telling that lie. "I'm going to have a shower," he declared, and prayed that his father wouldn't feel obliged to stand sentry in the bathroom.

Appearing resigned to his failure to communicate, his father nodded. "Ten minutes," he reiterated.

Casey nodded his compliance and edged off the bed, out of the room. From inside the bathroom, he watched as his father headed trustingly back to the other side of the apartment. The partly shattered, brutalized door wouldn't close properly, so Casey pushed it into as close a approximation of privacy as he could get. He stripped down and turned on the water.

His only desire at first was to get clean, to wash off the stink and the crud, but a few minutes into the process he noticed that Zeke had left behind a bottle of his shampoo with a small amount of product. Feeling like he had no power over the involuntary movement of his limbs, Casey snapped open the plastic cap and inhaled, and abruptly he was on the verge of screaming, to no real point except that he was more than a little fucking upset, that being him really blew, and it especially blew that Zeke would never hear what he shrieked: How could you, you have no right, how could you leave me you promised you promised no matter what you prick you asshole and now you change your number you could have been honest at least instead of letting me find out that way motherfucker I hate you, I hate you... No, it was his father who would have to hear and his father who would have to come running on his broken foot so Casey choked back the howls of rage, again shoving his fist against his mouth, and then used the last of the shampoo on his own hair.

Emerging from the bathroom some minutes later, he dressed in fresh clothes and felt marginally improved. At least he would not go reeking to his fate tomorrow.

After a dutiful report to the living room, he addressed himself to the sandwich, soup and tea that his father had laid out on the coffee table for him. It was like forcing sand down his throat. His father's mouth was twisted as though he was chewing something bitter himself; Casey realized gradually that it was about actual, physical pain. There was a whiteness around those lips that made Casey suspect that he had not merely sprained or twisted but actually broken his foot. "At least take a Tylenol, Dad," Casey suggested.

"Can't," his dad grunted in reply. "Flushed them."

Casey offered a half-hearted smile of apology, ignoring the pull of resentment.

"I think I need to go to the hospital and get this taped up," admitted his father.

Yes, go! Casey's mind trumpeted, completely bewildering him. He had become so demented and bizarre to himself that his heart pounded in fear of what he would do or propose next. It skipped with anxiety even as he urged his father, "Go," despite the fact that he had no intention of trying anything and he didn't really want to be alone.

"No. I'll survive until tomorrow."

"But you — "

"Casey, I am not leaving you alone here. If I have to, I'll go as soon as Sasha gets back."

So they became two pitiful living room fixtures, he and his dad. Even after repeated applications of ice his dad's foot caused him so much discomfort that he was unable to nod off as he patently wished to, and for Casey, there were no longer any rational connections between tired, bed, and sleep. He had lost the ability to make meaningful combinations of them. The slight warmth the shower had given him departed quickly, and he sat there on the couch making a pretense of watching the football game his father had put on. For one whole quarter of that game he was fighting with a certainty that to ruin something would make him feel better...anything he could have laid his hands on, anything not nailed down. He envisioned plenty of damage to himself that way too — he prophesied blood and stillness and understood why Yves had been so insistent that he make that promise to her. Petrified by himself, he sat rigidly on the couch, feeling oddly like a clone of his father since both of them were trying not to move lest they aggravate their pain.

It was hours of freezing cold and staring at the part of the room that held the TV screen — until at last he heard Sasha's key in the lock. He hugged his ankles, tucking them up tight against his body, longing for Sasha to find him and dreading it because he feared that the instant he tried to speak he would begin crying again. His father made a move as though to get up, winced in pain, and stayed put.

It seemed there was an eternity of Sasha puttering about in the distance, until they heard him find the broken door and exclaim, "Oh, shit! Casey!"

"In here!" Casey's dad called then.

At long last the familiar face inserted itself in the room. There was an almost-panic in it that faded as Sasha saw that Casey was intact. "Hi..." he began, and taking in more of the details, he came without a word to sit beside Casey, putting an arm around him. "What happened to the bathroom door?" he asked softly.

"I broke it," Casey's dad said.

Casey leaned into Sasha, hiding, closing his burning eyes.

"Broke it how?"

Sidestepping, Casey's dad replied, "Casey has an appointment tomorrow. At ten."

"Where?"

"With that doctor."

"You mean Yves?"

"Yes...she wants us both to come too."

"But...how did this all happen — while I was at work?"

"We've had a difficult time. Casey wanted to call her."

"Kitten?" Sasha tried to tip Casey back but Casey resisted it just by not helping, keeping the weight of his body inert against Sasha's. "You want to fill me in?"

Casey remained as he was, moulded to Sasha's familiar warmth and scent, and didn't even try.

"Okay," Sasha sighed. "I guess that's a no. How about you get ready for bed and I'll join you in a bit?"

His intention was surely to get the information he needed from the other person in the room, and Casey was willing to let that happen if it could spare them all from another outbreak of tears. However, at that point Casey's father broke in with, "I think I need to go to emergency."

"What?" The alarm in Sasha's voice was rising again. "Why? What happened?"

Casey's father shook his head. "It's not that serious...I'm just pretty sure I've broken a few toes."

This time, Casey was forcibly dislodged as Sasha straightened to get a look at the appendage. Casey looked also. He had spent a whole evening with that foot but this was the first he had noticed that part of it seemed to have grown to twice its normal size inside the white, cotton tube sock. "Oh, my," Sasha commented. "But are you...can you manage?"

"Yes. If you could just give me directions..."

"But you can't drive like that, can you?"

Casey's dad pursed his lips for a second then said, "I'll take a cab."

"Or I could take you," Sasha offered, not quite disguising his fatigue at that prospect.

"No," Casey's dad refused. "You have to stay with Casey. He can't be alone."

Apparently, the possibility of Casey going with them to the hospital was out of the question, and Casey didn't have to look up to feel Sasha's anxiety escalating. "What the hell happened?" Sasha demanded.

With that, Casey pulled away and got to his feet. If he couldn't find words to explain to Sasha, at least he could leave the room so they could discuss him undisturbed and Sasha could get his answers. And maybe he could try to call Zeke again in the meantime — but there was no point, Zeke was "not in service," Casey reminded himself as he wandered out of the living room, still struggling to understand the simple words thenumberyouhavecalledisnotinservicethenumberyouhavecalled youhavecallednotinservicenotinserviceservesyourightservesyourightslutslutslut...

"What's that, kitten? What did you say?"

He didn't think he had spoken; perhaps he had made a sound of some description. He paused in his amble towards the bedroom, turning to face them. "I want a Xanax," he said.

"You'd never be able to get up for your appointment," Sasha said at once.

"But...they're gone, remember?" Casey's father added, drawing an agitated look from Sasha.

"I know," Casey muttered. "I just wanted one." His father's failure to understand this distinction pissed him off immeasurably.

They barely waited until he was out of earshot to start whispering. Foregoing brushing his teeth, he went and laid himself in Sasha's bed, waiting for them to finish. The conversation went on for a solid fifteen minutes, after which he heard footsteps, and the door to the outside world opening and closing as his father left the apartment in the middle of the night to have his injuries tended to. Then there was the shower running and the bathroom door creaking unhealthily. Casey heard Sasha commenting to himself about it. Finally Sasha came into the bedroom and put on his pajamas in the dark. Getting into the bed, he immediately pulled Casey into an almost- stifling embrace. He said nothing for a long time, while Casey waited.

"I love you," he said at length, his voice gruff. "But if you kill yourself I will never forgive you. I mean it this time, Casey."

"I didn't want to," Casey struggled to say. His glimpsed his next emotional outburst approaching, and it was unstoppable. He'd only manage to postpone it for a little while.

"I don't get that, I don't get how you think about it but you don't want to, and I'm just telling you I will never...never...forgive you...if you do it."

"Not going to," Casey whispered.

"That's better. That's...really good." Sasha let out a shuddery, almost-crying breath and hugged Casey even tighter. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow but I'll be there."

"I'm scared, she's going to..."

"Don't be scared. God, kitten, you've been so brave tonight. Knowing you needed to call Yves and telling her..." Casey was squeezed until he could barely breathe. Sasha attempted laughter, and failed. "You have to know that there's nothing you can't do."

"Sasha..."

"What?"

"My dad...he took your knives and put them somewhere."

"Yeah, he told me. It's okay, Casey."

"I'm sorry."

"But it's okay...I don't care about the knives, I care about you."

"I didn't want this to happen."

"I know...you've been having such a hard time, kitten, what with nasty dreams and everything else just kind of lousy — "

For some reason Casey felt that he had to contradict that statement. "I haven't been dreaming...I mean...I had one the other night but that's it."

"Casey...it was more than one."

Despite the warmth of the covers, and of Sasha's body, Casey started to shiver. "What do you mean?" he asked, but he knew. There were those snatches of dark things happening in the middle of the night, things he had only remembered briefly in the light of day. It hadn't occurred to him that there was anything for someone else to notice, that he had been disturbing his bed partner.

"Since you started sleeping with me, kitten..."

"Oh," Casey whispered.

"It's all right, really."

"I woke you up?"

"A few times."

"Fuck...fuck..." Perhaps it was an overreaction to be nothing less than shattered by this news, to fall once more to fits of tears over something that should have been a minor point of contention. "Fuck."

"Hey," Sasha soothed, rubbing his back. "It's okay...take it easy."

"But you...you...have to...sleep too," Casey hiccoughed, "and you can't go around being tired...you have work and stuff..."

"Come on, kitten...no need to be a drama queen. The only reason I mentioned it was that I was hoping you would tell me what the dreams are about."

The tar-black ooze was running in him again, Casey could feel it all through him, coating, defiling everything. There was no one on the planet who was a greater burden than him and it was no wonder that Zeke had taken off and only a matter of time before Sasha made his escape too. "Don't," he gulped, gripping Sasha's pajama front, bunching it in handfuls.

"Don't what?"

"Leave."

"Casey, you know you'd have to beat me off with a stick."

"But if you weren't h-here — "

"Since it's not going to happen, there's no reason to worry about it."

"I'm gonna make it really — really hard, I can't help it, I just — "

"Are you?" Sasha said. "Oh, dear. I'd better brace myself."

Somehow, his gentle disinterest in Casey's dire prediction helped to get the worst of the misery contained. At least the spasms eased and Casey could almost get out an entire sentence without stammering. "Zeke's gone...I'm fucked and I'm going to fuck up everyone else."

"Casey, there's so much wrong with that I don't know where to start. I know for a fact that Zeke will be back. I talked to him and yeah, he was going to go to that wedding but that's what he promised his father he would do. Personally, I'm glad you decided to come home instead of going with him. I think it was the right decision."

Obviously, Zeke hadn't told Sasha everything and Casey should have realized it earlier when Sasha kept asking if they could have a talk...but he had been assuming that Sasha and Zeke discussed everything to do with him. Zeke had pretty much implied that, and Casey didn't know why Sasha wasn't pushing harder about the reasons for Casey's abrupt change in plans. He was glad for it, though. He didn't have the will to attempt either truth or evasion. Exhaustion was pummelling him and even if he didn't think sleep was on his agenda, he was ready to stop talking. He laid himself out flat, hands folded on his chest. "I'm so tired."

"I know. Me too." Propping himself on an elbow, Sasha caressed Casey's hair lightly for a few seconds. "Are you going to hang in there for me?"

"Guess so."

Sasha settled down on his side, huffing and grunting as he tugged the covers into place. "Everything's going to work out, kitten, trust me.

The only honesty Casey could offer in response to that was no response at all.

"Time for sleep," Sasha sighed, and shortly he had proved it.

A while into listening to him breathe, Casey heard a creaking of the bed on the other side of the wall...his and Zeke's bed, and his heart leapt with the improbable notion that Zeke was there before he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he might have drifted off temporarily and missed his father's return...because of course it was not Zeke. It couldn't possibly be Zeke and he was out of his mind as usual. Zeke's number was notinservice, therefore Zeke didn't want to talk to him... and therefore Zeke didn't want him.

No, his logic was no logic at all. The notinservice wasn't a harbinger of something previously unknown, it was merely the confirmation of what was already a fact, a thing that he had known ever since the horrible discourse between him and Zeke on Wednesday. Nothing had really changed. It was reasonably certain that Zeke would return to Seattle and that he would continue to live in the same apartment with Casey. He would speak civilly to Casey once his anger had cooled, but he would not be with Casey because he was not the kind of person who put up with being hurt repeatedly. He would walk away from their relationship and keep his distance...his current, physical distance was only a literal expression of his leaving in spirit.

There was something even worse to know, and nothing would alter it. Zeke would come back and they would not be together anymore, but still Zeke would insist on knowing every last thing about Casey. Zeke was determined, stubborn and controlling, and he was nowhere near finished with helping Casey — that was what he had said, wasn't it? Word for word. He wouldn't be finished until he had cut Casey open and bled every last bit of truth out of him. While Sasha was kinder about it, he was essentially on the same quest. They both believed that if he could just offer up the truth to Dr. Yves, everything would be okay.

So it would be in his best interest to give them all something. Only something sufficiently startling would satisfy them — he just didn't know what that could be. It couldn't be what they wanted, what they expected and conspired for. He really didn't have anything to accuse Roy with, or Janice for that matter. So maybe he kicked and lashed out in fear once in a while — that was just the obstinate twitching of a mind full of contradictions. He had given himself over to a universe of extremes and he couldn't go back, he just hadn't been good enough for more than a bit of hard play followed by the inevitable rejection. What then, was he supposed to confess? Certainly nothing that could make his friend, his doctor, or his ex-boyfriend happy. He was probably going to end up in a padded room while the doctors puzzled over Alien- Boy's pathology, Zeke would move on, even Sasha would move on, and Casey would be alone forever like he'd always known he would end up.

He probably shouldn't have promised Dr. Yves what he'd promised. Still, he wasn't above breaking such a promise under the circumstances, even if it meant that he'd never be able to redeem himself...but for now, he was stuck. He had an appointment to attend, and maybe his clever doctor could pull a miracle out of her file folder. She was pretty smart, after all, and he didn't have anything to lose in hoping that she would surprise him.

Gradually, there was a tiny glimmer of light beyond the curtains of Sasha's room. Casey watched it, urged it on, cooed to it in his mind until finally it was really morning and he could justify making a move to crawl out of the bed. At that point Sasha, who had apparently been deep in sleep, clapped a stern hand on his forearm. "Where you going?" he slurred, eyes not opening.

Casey crammed his reaction down. Exhausted or not, he owed it to everyone to be the best boy he could be today. "Bathroom."

"Purpose?"

"To piss and brush my teeth."

"Kay."

He stumbled a little getting from Sasha's room into the hallway, his bare feet tangling slightly in the carpet. He didn't think he'd made a sound but an instant later he heard the leviathan stir in his and Zeke's room. "Casey?!" his father called, with a tinge of urgency.

"Just going to cut my wrists," he breathed.

"What?"

He raised his voice. "Just getting up." He pushed on the broken bathroom door a little harder than necessary, his hand making a bit of a thud against the laminated wood.

After doing what he had said he was going to do, he headed to the living room, seeking the mind-numbing company of the television. As he passed by the kitchen, he noted that Sasha had made it there ahead of him and was doing something with the bread. "Cinnamon toast?" Sasha offered.

Casey wasn't hungry, but he didn't dare object. "Yes, please," he said politely.

Shortly, the TV remote slipped cool and safe into his hand, and the screen brightened on some animated children's cartoon. He recalled that in the rest of the world it was Saturday and New Year's Eve was tomorrow night. In some part of the world, people were still in holiday mode. He wondered what they did for holidays in psychiatric hospitals. He imagined that he could look forward to an annual viewing of It's a Wonderful Life and on Christmas Day, maybe a plastic tray with a few slices of turkey, canned cranberry sauce and instant mashed potatoes. It didn't sound all that bad...provided the other inmates left him alone. And for New Years they would drink lemon-lime soda and all the patients would wear silly paper hats, monitored by big guys who wore scrubs and measured the emotions in the room for signs of disturbance. Together, they would all watch the big ball drop in Time Square.

"One order cinnamon toast, up," Sasha said, appearing in front of Casey. Casey took in Sasha's friendly grin and the way he served up the toast artistically on a plate with Casey's pills, just as he had on previous occasions, and wondered if the only difference between home and a hospital was a difference of style.

He accepted the plate. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Sasha dropped into his armchair, stretching and yawning.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not hungry right now."

Casey covered his annoyance by faking good humour. "I never get to say that."

Sasha considered him for a second, then said, "Okay, fair enough." He levered himself into a standing position again. "I'll have some too."

As his friend returned to the kitchen, Casey revised his opinion. Somehow even when everything sucked ass in a certain place, it could still be better than another. Home was absolutely preferable, and if Dr. Yves locked him up then all promises were rescinded. At some point today, he would decide if it was worth warning her.

After the bone-shuddering cold of Ohio's December, Seattle's almost- January was balmy. The mist on his face helped Casey to shake off some of his grogginess, and the rapid infusion of pure adrenaline had him wide awake by the time they arrived in front of Dr. Yves' building, at one minute to ten.

They found the entranceway dark and the front door locked.

"Maybe she's not here," Casey's father said, his expression a hybrid of worry and hope — no doubt the hope of reprieve from having to deal with a shrink in person now. His appearance this morning was of a man older than Casey knew him to be. And he was limping noticeably; apparently, the emergency department had taped up two toes last night, given him a pain pill, and told him to try to stay off his foot for a while. They had recommended ordinary Tylenol for the duration but he had not bothered to let them know that he couldn't keep any of that stuff in the same apartment with his possibly-suicidal son.

"No, she has to be," Sasha said. He located the buzzer and used it.

Not thirty seconds later, Dr. Yves came to let them in. "Good morning," she greeted them, and not waiting to hear if anyone responded in kind, led them into the otherwise deserted reception area. She was dressed for today's occasion in a pair of lavender jogging pants and matching jacket of the same material. There was a light, flowery scarf draped around her neck, and to Casey she had never looked as much like someone's grandmother as she did then.

"So, Casey," she said, noting her guests with a nod. "Is this your father?"

"Yeah..." Casey mumbled. It felt awkward unto impossible for some reason but he tried an introduction. "Um...Frank Connor...D-Doctor Yves?"

Yves reached over to shake his father's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Frank."

"Yeah," his father returned, then cleared his throat nervously. "You too."

"And it's good to see you again, Sasha." Without delay, Dr. Yves turned her attention to Casey. He had been trying to observe her, to ascertain her feelings about this event. He couldn't make out anything — not a mood or an attitude or anything the least bit atypical in how she behaved towards him. "Well, then, Casey," she said. "How would you like to start?"

"H-how?"

"Shall we have Sasha and your father — "

"No," Casey blurted. He didn't dare glance Sasha's way, knowing that Sasha would be disappointed.

"You want to talk to me alone first?" Dr. Yves said.

"Yeah."

"All right, then. Sasha...Frank...do you think you could wait out here? Or if you want to you could leave and come back in a little bit?"

"How long do you think it'll be?" asked Casey's father, fidgeting on the spot. No doubt he was hoping she'd say not to bother coming back at all and that they should leave everything to her.

"Say an hour?"

Sasha and Casey's father exchanged looks and shrugs. "Let's go get a coffee," was Sasha's rather weary suggestion.

"All right," his father agreed.

"Thank you," Yves said. "See you in an hour, then. I'll leave the door unlocked, so when you come back if you could just wait out here...? I'll come and get you."

"Sure," Sasha replied. He smiled briefly at Casey, having apparently made the decision not to hold anything against him — but to watch him and Casey's father limping-walking out together was beyond strange. Casey tried to imagine what they would talk about and couldn't think of a single thing they had in common, save for him. It was frightening to consider their impending conversation, but not nearly as frightening as having the two of them in therapy with him.

Yves made a sweeping motion, directing Casey towards her office. "Shall we go in?"

He acquiesced, scuttling down the hall to find his place. Falling back upon ritual, he removed his boots and formed himself into a ball in the chair. Everything felt strange and removed, the light a bit too bright for his eyes. Oddly, he realized, he had been expecting her office to feel like a refuge. It didn't seem at all like it, now that he was here.

"You look like you didn't sleep much," Dr. Yves remarked, now in her usual seat with her legs crossed. Her file folder and notebook were nearby, resting on her desk. Her face was very nearly expressionless, but she had to hate him. She couldn't be here on a Saturday because he was some special patient that she would go to special lengths to save. It was supposed to be her vacation, or at the very least it was supposed to be the weekend, and her grandchildren were staying at her house.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. He knew he was the wrench in absolutely everything right now. "I'm s — "

"Sorry for what?"

His skin crawled, creeping under his clothes and he fretted and rubbed his arms, trying to get some warmth into them. "I'm ruining your holiday."

"Like I told you last night, Casey...it's all right. I've just been spending time at home and there were no great plans that you've interrupted this morning. Besides, this is my job. Sometimes there are emergencies. You don't need to keep apologizing."

"You shouldn't have given me your phone number," he insisted.

Dr. Yves appeared somewhat confused. "Why would you say that, Casey?"

His shoulders were scrunched up around his ears. He wanted to go a step further and hide his eyes too, as infantile as it would seem. "You don't usually do that."

"Do what?"

"Let your patients call you at home."

"I do when I'm concerned that a patient is in crisis."

"But you told me you like to keep your life separate and not get too involved."

"Why is this an issue, Casey?"

Her tone was more detached than ever, and his failure to provoke the dislike that he knew she must feel made something ugly burn in him. It wasn't merely anger, but anger sure as fuck had a lot to do with it. "You don't actually give a damn about me, right? So you must be mad for having to come in here on a weekend."

"We've been through this, Casey, I thought we settled it already. I do care about you. I don't like to see you hurting — that's why I'm a doctor."

"So it's not really about me, it's just love for all mankind, right?"

"That wasn't a problem for you before. In fact, you said it was a comfort. What is it that's really bothering you?"

Getting the words out was a challenge that he barely managed. "You — you don't like me."

"What makes you think that?"

"I just know."

"Well, suppose that was true?" she returned. "What would that mean to you?"

At this apparent confirmation of his fears, his stomach quivered. He wanted to cry, and answering out loud seemed out of the question when he would just break down and give her more reason for her dislike.

"Why is it important that I like you, Casey?"

Shrinking further into the chair, he whispered, "I like you." His anger had gone under just as quickly as it had surfaced. "I do like you."

"Thank you," Yves replied, not appearing at all moved by the confession. "I appreciate that, Casey, but you don't have to like me, you know."

"But I tell you so much... I told you about them, and last night..."

"What is it that you're worrying about here, Casey?"

Unclenching a little, Casey tried to look less like the agitated freak that he was. "I think it's...I don't know, I just..." His voice fell to a whisper. "I hope you like me." He squirmed. "If you don't like me you'll want to... to get rid of me."

"I think what you're saying, Casey, is that I'm more likely to have you hospitalized if I don't like you?"

With that, he gave up trying to be still. He would do whatever he was doing — shaking, rocking, vibrating, whatever he needed to soothe himself. "Maybe... yeah."

Dr. Yves voice didn't change. "You don't think that I can separate my personal feelings from my professional judgment?"

"You're only human," he muttered in return.

Yves raised her eyebrows and reached for her notebook. She flipped to a fresh page but didn't write anything just yet. "Interesting point," she noted. "Let me ask you this before we get down to assessing you...what's your assessment of me? Have you decided that I am human and not something else? Do you think you can work with me?"

"I have been working with you."

"Well, Casey, it's true you've been coming here regularly since September, but I think you'll agree that it's been a struggle at times."

That had to be her way of telling him he'd been a bad patient. He shrugged, not wanting her to see how that bothered him. And it bothered him further that he wanted to be her best patient...if he was honest, he would have to admit that he wanted to be her favourite.

She added, "It's been apparent for some time that there are a lot of things that you don't want to tell me."

"But...I told you things," he said. He'd given her his most important secret and it hadn't been easy. Zeke was furious about it still. He'd probably never stop being furious about it.

"Things?"

"You know...aliens." He watched for a reaction to those words. As ever, there was nothing visible on the surface and he wondered why he even kept looking.

"Yes, you did," Yves acknowledged, "and that relates to what I was asking you about trust. I mean, if you're worrying about me potentially being your enemy then I can hardly blame you for having a difficult time telling me things."

Casey felt suspicious of the direction she was going, but uncertain of what it was. He said, "I don't know what to say to that."

"Essentially, I want to know if you trust me, Casey."

"I do," he said, almost without hesitation. There was no doubt of the truth of it, only of the wisdom of saying it. Because he was, of course, an idiot who had trusted certain people long past the time that he should have stopped, and he would have to say if pressed that trust wasn't an accurate term for what he did. He didn't trust; he accepted, and those were probably not the same things. "Even though you might be an alien."

He dared a look in her direction and thought she was probably amused.

"So in other words," she said, "You trust me even though I might hurt you."

"Yeah...I know it's stupid. I'm stupid — "

"Not at all. That's life, Casey, and trusting even though you might get hurt takes courage, and a certain kind of wisdom."

"I'm not wise," he was quick to say.

"There may be people who would disagree."

"Not Zeke...he hates me now, I've done some things..."

Dr. Yves held up a quelling hand. "Casey... I know you want to talk about Zeke, and we will, but it's very important for today that we focus on your state of mind. My primary concern at this moment is your physical safety...and the safety of others." She waited to see if he had a comment, and when he had none, she continued, "I'd like to know how you're feeling right now."

He made what was to him an unprecedented effort to really consider the answer to that question, to analyze his mood, and he got slammed up against something rock hard and painful, so fast that he was nearly blinded. The thought- fragments tumbled and turned, heedless of what he should or might convey to her to help himself...Zeke hates me left me hates me it hurts, it all hurts, such filth... "I feel awful," he croaked.

"Can you elaborate on that?"

Resting his forehead against his knees, he tried to breathe through the pain so he could take a step back, enough to make out some of its features. "I... it's like a pain in my body and I can't stand it. I want it to go away...but..." He pressed his forehead against his knees and buried a soft scream there. "...I don't know the fuck how."

"Are you thinking that killing yourself is the only answer?"

"I did last night, for a while. Most of the time it's more like..." Lifting his head, he made himself look, he saw her watching him and tucked both hands between his knees and his body. "It's like — like I'm nothing. I'm filth and everyone can see it...I can't be like this...and I think what if this is just the start, what if it gets worse and worse? It's like...I think I won't make it, not because I can't bear this right now but because I don't know where it's going to stop..." Distantly, he observed that he was full-out sobbing. Yves put down her notepad and calmly held out the box of tissues that always sat on her desk. "I can't — seem to — stop crying," he moaned, snatching one.

"Crying is allowed."

"But — I've done it — so much. Everyone must be sick of me. Sasha...and Zeke's so disgusted by me, by what I did, he's gone..."

Yves put the tissues back on her desk but this time within his reach. "We'll get back to Zeke, I promise, Casey. Right now I want you to tell me what you think is going to happen if I let you go home."

He wiped his streaming eyes. "I d-don't — know."

"Have you thought a lot about how you might kill yourself? How you would do it?"

"There's — no way, really — " he struggled, his voice thick with phlegm.

"Suppose there was. Suppose you were alone and you had access to lots of pills, or a gun."

The overworked tissue was a damp, pathetic ball in his hands; he used it to blow his nose anyway. "I can't let everyone..." He sniffed and dabbed his face. "...can't let everyone down. That's all I can...can do...just not put them through any more crap."

"Casey... don't you think that you are valued by your friends, that you are more to them than just an inconvenience?"

"I know they care and they'd be really hurt if I...if I was gone...but I forget. All I can feel is that ache and wanting it to go away." He reached over and grabbed another tissue. "And then I s-start thinking or something happens and I just...I have...it's like an attack of the crazies."

"The crazies?"

"That's what it feels like. My head just fills up with shit and it's all bad and I can't stop it. It happens all the time. Like...like last night. I tried to call Zeke and his cell number didn't work."

"How do you mean, it didn't work?"

"It said it was out of service."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I just sat around...I sat all night until S-Sasha came home...I kept thinking I just wanted it to stop. That's what I thought...make it stop."

"How would you make it stop, Casey?"

He half-shrugged.

"Did you think about ways to make it stop?"

"Yes...well, no..."

"No?" she echoed.

"I promised you I wouldn't hurt myself."

Yves set her pen to her page and wrote, even as she continued her questions. "So this was after you called me?"

"Yes." He sensed the build-up of fresh saline behind his already stinging eyes. "I shouldn't have tried calling him. I knew Zeke didn't want to talk to me but I couldn't help it. I tried."

This time, Yves paused to scan her notes for a full minute before resuming, "A minute ago you mentioned a feeling, a kind of a wave where you feel 'filthy'..."

"It's more than that, it's...like I'm just covered in dirt. It's so real...it's like a physical thing."

"Is this something new, this feeling?"

"It's hard to remember...but I don't think so."

"Do you think you might be able to remember other times when you felt it?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't..."

"It can be difficult to remember feelings, Casey, I know. I just want you to do your best."

Casey shivered, hunching into the chair. He stared at his companion in therapy, the owl sculpture on Yves' floor, as if he might be of some assistance. Nothing came to him as he attempted to summon a specific time or place, a moment when he had started to know that he was filth. He only knew that it was true right now, that he was horrible.

Yves suggested, "Do you recall if you felt it before the hospital in Herrington, at all?"

As far back as last April when the term was just wrapping up, Casey's memories were predominated by instances of lying in bed...and still more lying-in-bed. He didn't know how he'd gotten through exams for there was just absolute stillness...stillness in body and mind that was somehow incredibly painful. Before that it wasn't complete stillness but the stillness was around a lot, and sometimes he wasn't in bed, he was on a couch or on a floor or in the shower with Roy. All the times with Roy loomed large in his memory, as though the great majority of his time last year hadn't been spent alone, as though after a point there had been anything but a great void of Roy. "When do you mean?"

"After Roy broke up with you, let's say."

"I remember...I went home and I just stayed in bed a lot...I remember thinking once in a while that I should kill myself... but it was a different feeling from last night."

"How so?"

"Mostly I just didn't feel anything. It was like I didn't even care enough to do something about how miserable I was."

"And this was right after Roy left you?"

"It was like that most of the summer. I just...slept, mostly."

Dr. Yves was flipping through her notes. " We've talked a little before about the way things went last summer," she observed. "It seems that you were very depressed, maybe too depressed to really consider suicide."

That caught his attention. "Too depressed for suicide?"

"When a person is profoundly depressed, Casey, they sometimes don't have the capacity to consider any action. They may be incapable of having ideas or planning anything. Occasionally, it's when they wake up a little that they suddenly start having suicidal thoughts. Or they may have had thoughts before but lacked the ability to carry them out. That's why even when a person appears to be improving, we need to be careful."

"You mean...when they get better that's when it really starts to hurt."

"Exactly."

"Wonderful," he muttered.

She smiled in acknowledgment before going on. "Of course there are no hard and fast rules. Everyone is a little different but I can tell you this...it may be a good sign when a patient starts to feel really lousy. In your case, though, there was a factor that kind of threw a big wrinkle into the process."

"What's that?"

"You tell me, Casey. You were lying in bed, feeling deeply depressed over Roy's leaving you..."

"And empty."

"And it hurt, yes?"

"Yeah."

"So what happened to change that?"

"Zeke," he answered immediately. "Zeke came...everything changed."

Yves nodded. "How did it change, exactly?"

"I...just...he was there and I could be with him. I still kind of felt the same but there was something...something..."

"Something to strive for?"

"Pretty much," he admitted.

"But you were still depressed, weren't you? And when the relationship with Zeke seemed to fall apart, that was when you fell apart."

He nodded.

"And this black feeling you just described...have you ever felt like that when you were with Zeke?"

"I don't remember," he said, and knew that he was lying.

Yves pressed, "Isn't it possible that this feeling has been around but you've been pushing it away?"

He didn't answer.

"Let me ask you this, Casey. When you dissociate...what do you feel just before it happens?"

As in previous sessions, he had the sense that she was constructing a trap around him that he couldn't quite see, only sense, and he wanted to disagree or resist everything she said. But he forced himself to speak because not playing along would only signal to her that she should keep on pushing. "I don't remember."

"Are you sure you don't remember? Or do you just try not to?"

He stared at his friend the inanimate owl some more. He really was beginning to be quite fond of the bird, and to feel bad for it being trapped here in this office instead of out in the wilds, acting wise and hunting down hot, juicy mice. "I guess I feel bad and that's why I dissociate."

"Bad in the same way that you feel bad now?"

"No," he snapped. "Before I was always afraid that Zeke was leaving and I was really fucking scared that he'd figure out that I'm shit and now he knows I'm shit...and he really is gone."

"Are those two states of mind really so different?"

He opened his mouth, holding back a scream of frustration.

"Go on," she urged, waiting for him.

Somehow, he made the scream into an explanation. "Before...sometimes it would be like feeling nothing and it was terrible but now it's like...terrible in a whole other way. It just hurts, like something is just hitting me and hitting me. Before I could make the bad feeling go away and now I can't."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. I think the Klonopin has something to do with it. I haven't dissociated in a while and it's like I feel more and more...I just don't remember feeling so...so much."

"Is it fair to say that this overwhelming bad feeling didn't just start when Zeke left for Los Angeles?"

Over Christmas...no, before that. After the birthday party and especially when Zeke and he weren't together and weren't fucking...which only stood to reason since he was such a slut. Oh, and since Zeke's party he'd written pages and pages detailing exactly how and what kind of slagslutwhore he was.

"Yes," he said, strongly suspecting that he had just fallen into a great, stinking mire. He chafed his arms, imagining that to tear the skin off would bring some relief from this feeling. It had to.

"When did you start to feel it, then?"

"When we stopped fucking."

"Casey," Yves said gently. "Why do you feel that you need Zeke so much?"

The tears that had almost dried up started to trickle anew. "I'm nothing without him."

"Objectively that just isn't true. You still exist. You breathe, you think, you feel...so what is it about being without Zeke that scares you? Can you articulate it?"

"I told you, I'm nothing. I don't exist — I literally feel like I'm not here, I don't know what to feel, what to do...I don't know!"

"I'm sorry if I'm upsetting you, Casey, but what you just described is important. So essentially, when you're alone you don't know who you are. Or if you do know, you don't like it, right? You don't like you."

"Yes, and...and it's like..."

"It's like...?"

Casey held his shins and whispered, "I'll do anything to make it stop."

"Such as?"

"Such as..." Overwhelmed with disgust at himself, he hid his face against his knees again; he couldn't look at her and say this. "Like what I did with Thomas."

"What did you do with Thomas?"

"Told you before."

"Not in detail."

"I wanted Thomas to fuck me. Zeke wouldn't and I needed it."

"Why did you need it?"

"Because I'm a slut, okay?"

"I don't consider that an acceptable answer, Casey."

Oh, but if he gave her another answer then he would be crossing a line that he'd never crossed before. Zeke had begged for him to talk about this shit and he reacted and fought and refused...and now here he was on the brink of doing just that. It wasn't even that he had no choice, but that he needed to confess his shameful behaviour with Thomas and he just knew where it would lead. He even wanted it, maybe in the same way that he wanted to just give up and let himself be tucked away from his friends, from the world. Over and done with, once and for all, forever and ever just be done with it amen.

"It's the truth," he replied. "You don't know...how I am, Dr. Yves. You don't see the way I act..."

"How do you act?"

"I do whatever it takes. I beg, I push, I argue...I twist everything...I get so I want it and that's all I know... There's nothing I won't do...

"And why is that, do you think?"

He managed to get his face away from his knees and speak the truth. "It's not that I need Zeke," he said clearly. "It's that I need someone. Anyone. That's why I'm shit. That's why I cheated twice on Zeke and — and that's why he left." He felt his lip tremble, and just barely staved off another fit of tears.

"Tell me what happened with Zeke," Dr. Yves said quietly, giving him leave at last. "The last I heard you were determined to go to L.A. with him."

"We were going together like we said. I wanted to — to — no, I told him I wanted to be there for him but that's crap. I just wanted him to fuck me."

"Because your month of abstinence was going to be up," she supplied.

"Next Wednesday, technically. See, I kept track...but I didn't even want to wait that long. It's all in my journal, I wrote it down... I was going crazy without it, and he was mad at me for being so fucked up...I mean, what good am I to him except for fucking?"

"So you equate your value to your ability to please Zeke sexually."

"It is my value. The rest of the time I'm just this big batch of problems. Roy could tell you...the only time he wanted to be around me was when we fucked. The rest of the time...he'd be somewhere else. Not with me."

There was a throb of rage, followed by a pulse, and then a full tsunami — and all unanticipated because he couldn't recall the last time he'd really felt anything about Roy. Zeke had been the object of all his emotions, for months now. He gave his attention to his breathing, trying to roll with that unexpected, hard anger, waiting for it to pass.

Moments later, he noticed that Dr. Yves was sitting forward in her chair as though she were enthralled by this turn in the conversation. "Finish telling me what happened with Zeke," she said. Her voice was as poised as ever.

The Roy-feelings popped like an overextended bubble, giving way once more to the all-consuming Zeke-feelings. "I couldn't keep it together. Sasha had to go home and he thought I should skip the trip and go home too. I refused to and Zeke didn't want me to, he wanted me to come with him — he wanted me too, I know he did, he even told me! But then after Sasha left I just couldn't...If I were smarter I would have waited until we were in L.A. but I couldn't...hide anymore. I started to get on Zeke's case but he wouldn't do anything. All of a sudden he was all virtuous and he didn't care how much I needed it...and then he told me...he told me we're not going to have sex anymore. Indefinitely. He said it was for my own good."

"That makes you angry."

"Yeah, it fucking makes me angry! He always has to be in complete control of everything. He decides when and how much and when he feels he's not in control anymore he suddenly announces that we can't do it because it would hurt me."

"Did you express this to him?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

Remembering back, Casey shivered. "It doesn't matter what I told him anyway. He tried to say that I...I don't know what I want. Like I don't want him even, that I'm scared of him."

"Why would he think that?"

"Because he has this idea that I'm this helpless person...well, I guess I can't blame him but he called me a..." So simple and yet impossible to say that word, to externalize a mere sound. Victim...it doesn't make you a slut it makes you a victim, it makes you a... "So I told him about Thomas."

Dr. Yves sat back, once more crossing her legs. Her notebook sat open on her lap, neglected. "What happened then?"

"He got really angry...so angry. He said he wanted to go to L.A. alone."

"Did he say anything else?"

"That he was coming back...but he would barely talk to me that night and the next day until we got to the airport...and now he's changed his number."

"You don't know the reason for that, Casey."

"Why else would he?"

"I don't know, but my point is that you're torturing yourself over what you imagine Zeke is thinking and feeling and you know that's not helping yourself. Zeke hasn't said anything except that he's going to his father's wedding and he'll be home after that. And that he feels you shouldn't have sex..."

"Indefinitely."

"Indefinitely. Why do you think he said that, Casey?"

"So he could go find some woman who doesn't cause him any trouble?"

"You don't actually believe that."

Casey shrugged. "You know me, Dr. Yves. I'm crazy that way."

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "We'll just let that pass for now. So, then — apart from your belief that Zeke wants to end it with you, why would he put an indefinite hold on sex?"

"I told you...he thinks that I don't know what I want."

"And why would he think that?"

"Because...because he's figured out that any cock will do..."

Those words seemed to fall into a terrible, quivering abyss as Casey realized how close he was to saying something else, and saying it loud: He's figured out I don't love him. And he had just invited her right into the topic he'd been fighting for months to keep her away from. In past sessions he'd resorted to everything and anything to keep this door barred, and now he'd just thrown it wide open.

Yves cleared her throat and observed, "Let's delve into that a bit."

"I'd rather not," he said, honestly, not blaming her for leaping upon the opportunity.

That earned him a smile. "Oh, I know. But you're doing such good work today, Casey...don't stop now. You said you feel like you're nothing when you can't have sex, that you need sex to feel good. Would you say that's an accurate paraphrase of what you told me?"

He made a pretense of trying to scramble for an escape, but he was entirely blank. "Yeah," he conceded, shrugging.

"Does that mean that you would have sex even when you didn't want it?"

"No...it means that I always want it."

"Is it that you want the comfort and the feeling of intimacy that it provides, maybe?"

"No, I want it," he shot back. "Even if..."

Shutupshutupshutup! his inner slut shrieked. Don't say it, don't say no, don't say...

"Even if what, Casey?"

...even if it hurts even if it leaves you sore and aching and empty and you go blank in terror of being alone after, like you did the last time with Zeke and just about every time before that and you're lying there feeling like you've been ripped apart and there's nothing of you, nothing...

"Nothing," he said.

She tilted her head, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of him while he shrank in his chair. "All right," she allowed. "So then...what is it about it that you look forward to all the time?"

Okay, it was time to let the slut do all the talking. "Feeling good," he smirked, and felt himself on more secure ground.

"How does it feel good?"

"You're kidding me, right?" he said, throwing on his sleaziest grin.

The doctor was unimpressed. "I'd like you to tell me exactly what you feel, what about it makes you want it so much that 'any cock will do'."

"I can't," he replied coyly. "It's...it's too embarrassing."

"I don't think you're embarrassed, Casey. I think you just don't want to look too closely at that feeling."

Well, his usual strategies were not being as effective as they should have been, but he had nothing to fall back upon. He purred, "Think what you like." And he truly didn't care what she thought. He didn't care what anyone thought, as long as he could have a hope of feeling good again.

"Casey...do you realize that every time we get onto the topic of you and sex, you follow a very predictable pattern?"

"What's that?" he drawled.

"First you put on a sexually promiscuous persona and try to make me uncomfortable. When that doesn't work, you get hostile in the hopes of scaring me off. I would have hoped that by now you'd see that I don't get embarrassed or scared."

Sometimes, he really did hate her — always making like she knew so much, like she understood him when she didn't know shit about what he felt. No one did, in fact...not Sasha, not Zeke...oh, definitely not Zeke. "I'm tired of people trying to tell me there's something wrong with it."

"Did you want to have sex with Thomas, Casey?"

"Yes."

"You actually wanted him? Or was it just a particular feeling that you wanted?"

"All right," Casey admitted. "I didn't want him. I just wanted to be fucked and that's why I'm a slut and I'm okay with that, I'm just sick of explaining it to people. How many times do I have to say it?"

"You've told me that you feel like a slut, yes. In previous sessions you've also used the words filthy, whore, dirty, disgusting, shit..."

She seemed to be looking for some comment from him. He had none, since she kept missing the obvious...that he was what he said he was.

"You don't seem to have a high opinion of yourself," she concluded.

He shrugged. "What else would you call someone who acts like I do?"

"My point, Casey, is that you seem to have judged yourself. You're the one who thinks that something's wrong about your sexual needs, but you don't want to admit it. So you push sex on yourself...maybe more than you really want and that's what Zeke observed and why he wants it to stop."

Closing his eyes, he could almost feel Zeke inside him that last time. The memory was the only real thing he'd had over the past month, the only real gift... "I do really want it," he insisted.

"Every minute of every day? No such human being exists, Casey." He tried for a mocking laugh but she just gave him an unconcerned look. "Not even the male of the species," she confirmed. "Yes, we are sexual creatures, all of us. We may think about sex a lot and we usually go for it any time it's available...but there are extremes that are unhealthy."

There seemed no purpose to responding to that.

"I think that we need to continue talking about this. Would you agree that that's a good idea?"

"I'm done," he muttered.

"No, we won't discuss this anymore today. We're not done with this topic, but I think it might be good to have Zeke here when we get back to it. And today we have other fish to fry. We've been talking for a while and unfortunately it will have end soon. So I need to assess what's going to happen if I let you go home with your father and Sasha."

So here it was. The doom of Casey Connor happened as he sat in a psychiatrist's armchair with his hands clutched in his lap, doing his utmost to impersonate a good boy, a sane boy. He should have known that he couldn't hide from her. Fuck, he had known, and still he'd made that call last night. He was truly his own worst enemy.

"Let me tell you what I'm thinking about, Casey. I would assess a moderate to high risk for you at this time — "

His body twitched, preparing itself. He was not going to go willingly.

"I know you've said that you made a decision that you didn't want to kill yourself and that is definitely a positive factor. However, there are reasons for caution. We can't take lightly that you have been thinking about hurting yourself, and particularly now when you feel that Zeke has left you. Many people with the Borderline diagnosis attempt suicide repeatedly throughout their life and it is often precipitated by abandonment or perceived abandonment. It may range from real, serious attempts to suicidal gestures... but the bottom line is I have to consider what I know of you, Casey. You made the point to me yesterday that a hospital would be more harmful than helpful for you, and at this time I agree. That could change at some point, but believe it or not, there are times that a doctor may choose to not refer to the hospitals and clinics, even with a patient who is quite suicidal. There are other options...such as having you sign a No-Harm Contract, and requiring you to see me five times a week for a while."

"Five," Casey echoed in dismay.

"Yes. Would you agree to that if I asked?"

"Yeah," he sighed.

Dr. Yves put her notes aside. She sat forward, right on the end of her chair, and clasped her hands. It was an earnest picture, and it caused every anxious atom in him to begin to agitate and froth. "That's good to know — but I'm afraid we're not there just yet."

"But you said — you said I shouldn't be — "

"We need to discuss other aspects of your behaviour that concern me Casey. These are concerns also raised by Dr. Chakri.

"Dr. Chakri?" he whispered.

"You had given her permission to share your medical information with me and I wanted to hear her assessment of your physical health at your most recent check- up, especially in relation to your medication, so I called her up. I understand that at one of your last appointments with her before you went home for Christmas she was extremely concerned about your physical condition. She also observed that you were frequently belligerent and combative. Dr. Chakri believes, based upon your physical exams and your general behaviour, that there is a very high likelihood that you are being assaulted...or you have been."

"Of course she does," he hissed, hands clenching.

"Don't get upset, Casey, I'm telling you this so we can discuss it."

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that. "How can I not get upset when — I knew this was going to happen. I knew it even though I told her and told her — "

"So you deny it."

"Yes, but it doesn't matter, does it? You're going to look at me now and say I'm acting out so it must be true, Zeke's hurting me and I just don't want to admit it or I don't know the difference."

"If it's not true, why are you becoming so agitated?"

"Because no one ever fucking believes me when I tell them Zeke wouldn't hurt me — !"

"Casey. Calm down."

"I am fucking calm!"

"Then perhaps you could show me, not just tell me," Yves said. "Now before you get more worked up, I will tell you that I don't necessarily agree with Dr. Chakri. I don't find it likely that abuse is occurring in the sense that she has suggested. On the other hand, the degree of physical debilitation she mentioned is worrying. Also, I cannot ignore the clear signs that something traumatic has occurred. If it was a sexual trauma, then that places you once again at high risk for a suicide attempt, and given your aggressive behaviour, I have to be concerned about the potential for violence towards others."

"I'm not like that," Casey declared.

"Not like what?"

"I'm not...I don't hurt people."

Liar, his head accused.

Meanwhile, Yves had continued her blather. "To tell the truth my concern on that score is more based on gut feel than anything empirical. From my own observations, all I could say is that you verbally lash out at times. You have a lot of rage that you don't allow yourself to express usually. When it gets out of hand, as it inevitably does, a lot of it is directed at yourself but more and more frequently of late it's being externalized. So far no one has been hurt that I know of but I have to ask what's going to happen when that rage gets out of control."

"I wouldn't..." Casey mumbled, and couldn't complete the statement of untruth. His shoulders hunched and he said, "If you're going to lock me up, just get it over with."

"I didn't say that. We're dealing with a lot of maybes here, Casey. Yes, you can be argumentative and maybe when your anger is getting the better of you, you might pick a fight with a person...but that doesn't necessarily make you dangerous in the sense that would warrant involuntary committal. The problem I have is the big question mark about violent events in your past. You absolutely refuse to tell me certain things, or to admit that they exist."

"What things?"

"Well, if I knew what they were, it wouldn't be a problem."

"Then maybe there's nothing to know."

"Casey...it would be so much easier for us to work together if you were more honest."

"Oh, so I'm a liar."

"I don't mean to imply that. It's more that there are things in people's lives that are hard to talk about. Sometimes so hard that they make up a story about it and come to believe it themselves. That's not lying...it's a way of surviving."

"Story," he echoed in horror. "You mean...alien story?"

"I know that in your way you were trying to tell me the truth..."

Even having anticipated and dreaded her reaction, it was a blow to be confronted with the straightforward rejection of his offering of honesty. For a time, he could do nothing but be immobilized by shock, while she continued to speak, drilling deeply into him with every word.

"Remember how I said I needed to think about what that meant, Casey? Well, I've thought about it, and I've done a little bit of research. I know that there were three women who went missing and have never been found. I know that no evidence of aliens was recovered and that apart from your friends — including Zeke — no one backed you up."

His mind and body suddenly announced their resistance, transforming a state of horrified paralysis into active rage. "Just say you don't believe me," he snarled. "I don't want to hear the why."

"It wouldn't matter what I believe, Casey, except that the truth of what happened back then connects very obviously to your safety and well-being now. There is violence in your past. It's still haunting you, you need to deal with it...and you refuse to deal with it. That's the heart of the problem for me."

"I've told you all I'm going to tell you."

"Well, that's problematic," she replied, watching him as she might have watched a dangerous animal.

"And I thought I could trust you."

"You can — "

"Not if you think I'm some fucking serial killer who eats women."

"I find that unlikely, actually."

He couldn't stay in his chair; he was up, he was standing in place, vibrating and noting with some satisfaction the slight flinch in her expression. "Why would it be unlikely? You say three women died and I have all this rage and violence in me. Plus I've already admitted to killing a whole alien race."

"You're not helping yourself now, Casey."

"What's the point of me trying to help myself? That's how I got here in the first place!"

"I suggest that you calm down."

"You think I might attack you?"

"Honestly? It's a possibility. You're a very angry person, Casey, and I'm definitely seeing that anger first hand. Now I'd appreciate it if you sat down."

Her tone was remarkably potent, draining everything but the guilt of having again become the mad person he'd been when he hit Winona. His knees went weak; he crumpled into his chair. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said.

"I know that," Dr. Yves replied, sounding sympathetic. "I have absolutely no doubt of that — and yet I've seen you lose control and I have to wonder what other sorts of things have happened when you lost control."

Winona's shocked, injured face paraded before his inner eye, and this time, he was the one who cringed.

"I know some things," Dr. Yves continued, relentless. "I know that you've gone out and almost picked up a stranger for sex. That in and of itself is dangerous. I know you've had violent thoughts about Zeke's friend, Winona. You've described some fairly intense fantasies, and then you told me that you were so hostile towards her at Zeke's birthday party that you felt you had ruined the day for him."

It was like she could see through him, even while missing the most important bits. And she must be able to see that there was a guilty truth pressing on the back of his throat.

"Casey? What else has happened when you got angry?"

He mumbled, unable to force it down, "Smashed...some things..."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"Not really...no."

"Anything else?"

"I..." Hit Winona. And Zeke, not to mention almost hitting complete strangers who made the harmless mistake of bumping into him. He heard himself making the desperate confession, as thought it were actually involuntary, "I know it was wrong, but she wanted to erase me. It felt like...had no choice." Of course Zeke expected more from him, that he was at least smart enough not to volunteer damning information. Zeke would be so very disappointed in him — more disappointed, disgusted...and Sasha too, but it hardly seemed to matter when Yves had already decided he was...what he was.

"Who do you mean, Casey?"

"I didn't really hurt her. I was just out of control for a bit."

"Who, Casey?"

"Winona."

"When?"

"At the party."

"So there was more that you didn't tell me?"

"She was in the apartment...I couldn't deal with it, I felt...she was always after Zeke, she wanted him and that's a fact...and she hated me. I knew she hated me and I..." He put his face in his hands and sobbed, "She was going to hurt me...she touched me and I...I just lost it."

"What did you do?"

Lifting his face up was out of the question. He stayed in hiding as he answered. "I hit her in the face. She had a nosebleed...probably a black eye...that's all. I would have hit her more but my friends stopped me." He couldn't hold back anything anymore. He moaned, "I didn't mean it."

"You thought she was going to hurt you."

"Yes."

"How? In a direct physical sense?"

"She would...erase me...in-invade me...and when I was gone she'd have Zeke to herself."

"I see." For a time Dr. Yves was quiet, reflecting on this new information. Then she said, "Did someone in the past do that to you? Did they invade you?"

For no real reason, Casey felt himself shrink. He had known that question would come but, as always, hearing it out loud was another matter.

"Casey?"

"Just..." he whispered. "She tried."

"She?"

"The..." With the bitter knowledge of how it would be received, he looked up and said it: "The alien queen."

Dr. Yves sighed. "All right. Have you tried to hit or attack anyone else?"

"Dr. Chakri probably said I did."

"Well, she said you acted cornered sometimes, but you didn't actually hurt her, Casey. Have you ever hurt any other women? Back when you were in high school maybe?"

"No."

"Have you hurt anyone else at all? I mean physically only."

"I... Zeke."

"How many times?"

"Don't know...a few, I guess. Mostly I hurt his feelings, I think." Casey knew that he was nearly whispering, and forced himself to be audible. "Lately...sometimes he would touch me and I wanted to just punch him...but I stopped myself."

"When did you first notice that you felt this aggression towards him?"

"I don't know. I just...I don't want anyone to touch me."

"Not even Zeke."

"No."

"What about Sasha?"

"Sometimes," Casey choked. "Not even him."

"You've told me Sasha is the person you trust the most."

He shook his head. "It isn't about trust. My head says it's okay but when I feel someone's hand on me...it feels like something else."

Dr. Yves was making notes as she questioned him. "What are you thinking when someone touches you and it's scary? What is it that you fear?"

Hunched into the smallest shape he could make, he said, "I don't want to say."

"That they're aliens," she guessed.

There was no reason not to admit it now, but he was reluctant all the same, as though her recognition of it was proof that there was some reason for fear.

"You're thinking they'll invade you."

"I don't..." he faltered. "...yes..."

"Even Zeke and Sasha would do that?"

He stared at her, blinking. This time he just didn't know the answer.

"Does that mean they could be aliens too?" she angled.

"Don't."

"Don't what, Casey?"

"Don't... play with me."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to follow the things you've told me to their conclusion." Raising her head and the pen from the page, Yves added, "My difficulty, Casey, is that I know there's more than what you've told me. I would like to revisit your alien story, because I do believe that in a way it must be the source of some of these issues. I'd like to get to what's behind it."

He pinned his eyes on a blank spot on the wall.

"I can see how disappointed you are, Casey. I did think long and hard about this. You present as someone who has survived a lot of serious trauma but apart from the bullying at school I really don't know much of your history. I want you to give more thought to trusting me with some of it."

I did trust you, he thought. I did.

"Okay, Casey. I guess this is where we stand for now. I think we should discuss this more tomorrow but right now I'd like to get your father and Sasha in here for a talk."

"Tomorrow?" he echoed. "But it's...New Year's Eve tomorrow."

"Yes, I know, but I want to see you in the morning for a while. We will need to take Monday off, of course."

He nodded and slumped down in the chair, wondering how he could find the strength to get up and walk. His brain had emptied itself of everything except a few, taunting little phrases: Zeke was right, Zeke was right, Zeke was right... Zeke is always right and you fucking did it to yourself...

Meanwhile, Yves had gone to fetch Sasha and his father, for he soon heard Sasha's voice approaching from the hallway: "... I thought I heard shouting."

"Yes," Yves admitted. "There was a little. Nothing to worry about."

Now Sasha was in the room, his eyes searching for Casey and finding him quickly. "Hey, kitten," he said. Casey didn't let their gazes meet, but Sasha didn't seem to care. He took the chair nearest Casey and reached for his hand. "It's all right...isn't it?" Sasha finished, speaking to Yves.

"Casey and I have something of an understanding, but there is much more that we need to talk about," Yves answered. With a tilt of her head and a wave at the couch, she addressed Casey's father. "Have a seat, Frank."

Casey's father did not sit. He folded his arms, took a long breath and the words tumbled out of him as though he'd been planning and preparing to say this for the past hour or so: "I don't want my son in any hospital."

Dr. Yves granted him a smile. "You and Casey are in complete agreement on that issue, Frank. I might as well tell you then, that for now, Casey will be going home. We're going to try it and see how it goes."

At this, the brittle resolve seemed to go out of Casey's father; he gave way onto the couch, emitting a sigh.

"It does depend upon a few things," Yves continued. "First, I'm going to have him sign something called a No-Harm Agreement. It's a provision of the contract that he calls me immediately if he feels like he's on the brink of doing something to hurt himself. You also need to know that he is promising to come to therapy five times a week now. Frank, how long can you stay here in Seattle?"

"How long do you need me?"

"Family support is very important to this arrangement. Now, it isn't that Casey should never be alone, but for the next little while at least it would be good if there was someone around most of the time. Sasha can't always be there all the time, and Zeke is an unknown factor right now."

"Zeke's not out of the picture," Sasha interposed. "He'll be back."

"Yes," agreed Casey's father, drawing astonished stares from all sides. "He told me that he would be there for Casey indefinitely. I believed him."

"But he disconnected his cell phone," Casey blurted out.

Now the trio of stares was directed at him. His shrink gave the impression of being unconcerned, while his father bit his lip — and Sasha escalated from hand- holding to a strong arm around Casey's shoulders. "Zeke will be back on Wednesday," he affirmed.

"I can definitely stay until then," his father said. "And longer...if necessary."

"Excellent," was Yves' response.

None of them said it, but Sasha and Casey's father had to be thinking that if Zeke didn't return as planned on Wednesday, their company would become more a situation of minding the deranged. As far as Casey was concerned, they didn't appreciate how very futile it was. There was little point to arranging for a potential suicide watch when Yves was going to yank him into an institution, probably sooner rather than later. It seemed dishonest of her, not to mention ridiculous.

"Why bother?" he said, loudly overriding something his father had been asking Yves.

In response, Dr. Yves' brows shot up. "I'm sorry, Frank. What did you say, Casey?"

"I said, why bother with this? You know you're going to end up locking me up."

Sasha tried to pull him closer; he shrugged off the arm. Yves considered him without speaking for a second, then stated, "That's not a foregone conclusion."

"But you think I'm dangerous."

Sasha's reaction was gratifying. "What?" he demanded in open outrage. "Dr. Yves — "

"I don't think that, Sasha... and Casey. I have told Casey that I think there's some risk of him harming either himself or someone else."

"Then why let me go?" Casey challenged.

"Kitten, hush. This isn't helping."

"But she doesn't believe me," Casey said. "She told me."

"Believe you?" Sasha echoed. "What — about the aliens?"

"You told her that?" Casey's father broke in. "Casey, for god's sake."

A perverse, strange sort of inspiration seized Casey. He had his eyes pinned on his father, watching him flinch and react and generally behave like he usually did, and he thought about the way that he had never asked this man for anything, had never dared because he didn't want to cope with the inevitable disappointment. Now he couldn't seem to stop himself. His notions of risk had changed and his need was too great.

Casey found himself on his feet without remembering having stood up. "Dad, you have to tell her. You were there. No one who wasn't there will ever believe it and it wouldn't make any difference if Zeke or Stokely told her. As far as everyone's concerned we're just sick kids who hated our teachers and rebelled for no good reason but if you told her..." He broke off, gulping for air.

His father had become like a waxworks version of himself. All four people in the room stared at him, waiting, while he goggled at Casey in a kind of appalled wonder.

"Please, Dad," Casey begged. "Tell her."

His father licked his lips slightly, letting his mouth fall open. No sound came out.

"Dad."

Still, his father didn't say a word.

Blinded by feelings that should have been no surprise, Casey took several steps, heading for the door, the street, and whatever came after, but Yves' voice stopped him. "Wait, Casey. You still need to sign that agreement for me."

"Why?" he whispered, his back to her.

"Because I need you to do it before you leave."

There was the sense of motion behind him, the sound of desk drawers being opened and closed. There was his father's presence too, while Casey fought down a ten-year-old scream, the one he'd never used, the one that indicted Frank Connor as a lousy father who had let him down and left him to the bad guys, never once defended him because maybe he believed the wimp needed toughening up.

"Casey," Dr. Yves said. "Come here, please."

He went to her, refusing to look at his parent. He read through the document. It was straightforward, summarizing what she had already told him. He was to call her, or a crisis line if she couldn't be reached, in the event that he felt in danger, regardless of the time. He was to attend therapy five times a week. He understood that if circumstances changed and he or anyone else was in imminent danger, Dr. Yves would act accordingly.

He signed it.

Leading them out to the main office, Dr. Yves made a copy for him, handing it to him with a "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"And Casey...please consider what we talked about. Think about what you want to discuss tomorrow. If you like, write it in your journal and bring it with you. It may be easier that way."

"Okay," he said, anxious to get away from her and feeling every single minute that he hadn't slept last night. "Bye."

"Thank you, Dr. Yves," Sasha said. "C'mon, kitten."

Casey didn't object to Sasha's gentle steering with a gesture or a light touch to get his attention, but his father's attempt to put a hand on his shoulder to guide him down the front steps of the building — that was another matter. He wrenched himself away, even letting his lip curl in revulsion. "Don't," he hissed, and showed himself down onto the sidewalk.

"Casey," his father said, taking a single, limping step.

"I'm going to walk home," Casey announced, with a glare.

"No, you're not," Sasha responded smoothly. "I don't feel like letting you out of my sight just now."

In answer, Casey started up the sidewalk at a run. He heard his name being shouted and the skittering of footsteps. He knew he would be caught and didn't make any great effort — and an instant later Sasha had his arm, holding him in place. He could have fought for freedom but he didn't. He just stood there, his skin rippling with the impulse to scratch and tear and rend, and he endured because that was Casey Connor. He who never fought, never resisted. Never said no.

"I just want to walk," he said, making one final appeal.

"I'll walk with you then," Sasha replied.

Casey shook his head. "Alone."

Sasha dropped his tone to a hush, presumably to spare Casey's father, supposing that he was in earshot and that he ever listened to a fucking thing to do with his son. "Kitten, you can't expect people to suddenly not be who they are."

It seemed to Casey that he'd always known this about his father. His mistake was having suddenly tried not-knowing it. He should have remembered that expectation would always bring disappointment, whereas acceptance meant nothing ever happened that he couldn't cope with.

He cast a look back at his father, who was standing by the car with his unhappy gaze fixed on the sidewalk, bracing himself to keep his weight off his injured foot, holding onto the car lightly with one hand. This was the same man who had hit Casey in the chest with a football, the same man who ignored and ignored him...the man who had sat across the dinner table from him and never once commented on the bruises... even when Casey had goaded Gabe into losing control so that he had a nice, fat shiner to display at home. His mother, predictably, had babbled in distress and accepted his lie, while his father had said nothing.

No, his father hadn't changed one iota and Casey knew he was a fucking idiot for having thought otherwise. If Frank Connor didn't have the capacity to understand a son who was different from what he wanted him to be, from himself, he sure as fuck didn't have the ability to process what happened to him at the hands of an alien race.

"Shall we tell him we're walking back?" Sasha inquired.

"No." Casey put one tired foot in front of the other, in the direction of Zeke's car. He did not say that his father was probably in no shape to drive. "I don't really have the energy anyway." He took up a waiting position beside the passenger-side with his back almost to his father, and waited for it to be unlocked. There was no option but to let his father open the door for him — it was either that or speak to him.

Climbing into his beloved, familiar backseat, he placed himself in the corner behind his father and ignored the painful attempts at chitchat up front.

The message light was flashing on the answering machine; Casey just glanced at it and went on his way. He was conscious of little but his imminent and highly anticipated nap. His eyes were on fire, his body leaden; he didn't aspire to anything more than to remove his shoes and jacket once they got in the door. Having done that, he went into Sasha's room and laid down but two seconds later he thought of his afghan and went to the other bedroom to retrieve it.

Suddenly, he heard Zeke...It was his voice, Zeke was here, Zeke was in the apartment as impossible as it was it was somehow possible and leaving the afghan, he ran to the kitchen with his heart thudding irregularly in his chest.

Sasha was standing next to the answering machine, a smile forming as he listened. "'...so that's all...bye for now,'" Zeke's voice wrapped up.

"What did he say?" Casey breathed.

"Here, I'll play it again."

With a high-pitched squeak, the machine coughed up the message again: "‘Hey, it's Zeke. Just wanted to let you know I'm at Jacob and Melissa's house. Just in case you tried my cell, I've been messing with the number. For now if you want to reach me, just call me here. It's...818-555-9770.'" There was a pause. "‘So, that's all...um...bye for now.'"

"You see?" Sasha said, with a grin that was, to Casey's eyes, somewhat relieved. "He's not disappearing on you, kitten."

The air in the kitchen had become too close, stifling all attempts at inhalation and Casey needed to get away, out...upstairs, even if it was chilly it didn't matter. Thoughts of napping had vanished, he didn't want to be lying down just now and he couldn't forget that his father standing there, disapproving of Casey's airs and vapours. As much as Casey didn't give a fuck about that particular person's opinion, he didn't want to hear it at the moment either. "I'm...going up on the roof for a minute," he panted.

"It's drizz — " Sasha began, then quickly relented. "Take your coat at least."

Then it was up the short flight of stairs to the roof, and Casey stood at the ledge looking at traffic and people down on the street, savouring the rain on his face. It occurred to him that he was a little bit like a person staring down execution. His mind protested that it wasn't fair, that there were yet so many sensations to be felt and enjoyed out here in the world. Moments of cool water on his feverish skin, the thrill of absorbing a new idea...Zeke's body thrusting hard against his...except he didn't have that last one anymore, really. All he had was a phone message. There was no remission for a slut's wanton behaviour, and the slut still had a shrink waiting to pounce, plus a father who was of no use to him. Zeke hadn't been much use that way either, come to think of it. Casey could forgive him for it, though, because he had to. And because it wouldn't matter if Zeke told Yves that the aliens were real. From her point of view, Zeke was no more believable than Casey. No, all Casey really needed from Zeke was fastened between his legs.

Such a hideous, repulsive thing, he was. Casey didn't want to die, no — but if he had killed himself when he had the chance, at least, he wouldn't be in the position he was in now. He could have expired believing that his problem boiled down to feeling too much. Everyone would have gone around forever more saying, Oh, Casey Connor...he died of a broken heart, poor thing. I never thought that it was possible but he did. But too late, he was a survivor after all, debauched and dangerous, a sickly thing lacking in sane emotions and wanting far too much. Maybe that was the difference between him and everyone else, in the end. He had just never been human enough.

"Okay," Sasha said from behind him. "I can't."

"Hmm?" Casey turned to see his friend standing at the top of the stairs, just inside the doorway.

"I can't let you be...and I wish you wouldn't stand so close to that ledge."

"I just signed a fucking contract, Sasha."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing. That's a promise that only has to be broken once." Sasha was coming closer as he spoke, pulling his coat around himself and glancing up at the clouded sky with a scowl.

The freshness of the damp air had quickly passed into a sense of chill; Casey folded his arms, conserving body heat. "I'm not breaking it." He too looked up at the sky, at the non-stop grey cover, then down at the world that he would soon be locked away from. "It doesn't matter, though."

"How do you mean?"

"You heard — Yves thinks I'm disturbed. Someone fucked me up way back in high school and now I'm acting out. She thinks the aliens are just a cover up for some tired old abuse story. The same as Spadoni did."

"Hmm."

There was an entire encyclopedia of things still unsaid in that small sound. Casey shot a look at Sasha, who gazed back evenly.

"I mean," Sasha explained, "I can kind of see where she's coming from."

"Well, thanks."

Sasha offered up a penitent wince, and went right on doing what he was doing. "Imagine that the things that happened to you...never happened to you. And then someone told you that aliens had invaded and that they take over people's bodies...but not to worry because you had already fought them off. Don't you think you might have trouble believing it?"

"Maybe," Casey grunted, profoundly hating this conversation. "It would depend..."

"On what?"

Rolling his eyes, Casey shot back, "If some disturbed kid like me told me, of course I wouldn't believe them. But if the kid's father who was as straight and boring as they come — if he told me, then that might make a difference."

Sasha didn't acknowledge the slight against the man downstairs. "Okay...so Yves is trying to digest the part about aliens and at the same time she knows she's missing some pieces of the story."

"What do you mean?" Casey said, but he threw in a challenging stare just to let Sasha know that he had a pretty good idea and he didn't like it at all.

"Did you tell her about Roy?"

"Of course."

Sasha raised both eyebrows. "But you left some parts out, didn't you?"

Officially, this was now a discussion of an unmentionable topic and Casey turned his face away in protest. Some parts. Things that Casey still had no memory of having told anyone, although he supposed he must have for he didn't know how else Zeke could have known what he now demonstrably knew. For months, Zeke had been trying crack him open and get to what he figured were the Definitive Casey Secrets, and how delighted he and Sasha must have been when Casey puked up a few while stoned stupid. Apparently the whole world knew everything about him and was just waiting for the right time to spring their traps on him.

"It wasn't my plan to have this conversation now," Sasha said after a long silence between them.

Casey wasn't buying that for a second. A replay of the tell-me-about-the- hotel game had been inevitable since the moment Casey had gotten off the plane from Cincinnati; the only difference between Sasha and Zeke was that Sasha was patient enough to let Casey imagine for a little while that it wasn't going to happen. "And I suppose you want to get all the facts," Casey heard himself snarl.

"No," Sasha replied quietly. "We don't have to get into detail. I know Zeke probably did that and I'm sure it wasn't fun. All I want is to ask..." Sasha took a breathe, obviously bracing himself for repercussion. "... is that you talk to Dr. Yves about it."

"'It'," Casey repeated.

"I mean...what happened with Roy and Janice."

Even knowing that it was coming, the mention of those two names triggered maniacal reactions. It was all Casey could do to stay intact and more or less in place, barely resisting the terrible burning sensation all through his abdomen and the jabber in his brain that said shutupshutupshutup but no use in telling anyone to shut up when he'd told Zeke to shut up all those times and it hadn't worked, and he'd told Sasha that, too, so Sasha wouldn't be having it this time. If he had to drive Casey insane to make a point, he was evidently prepared to do it.

"She doesn't have the full picture, Casey. I've seen the woman in action now and I'm pretty sure she knows you're holding back. She's not dumb."

Casey gnawed on his lip and frantically tried to summon an answer, or the absence of an answer that would somehow have the power to make this stop.

"Kitten? Are you going to stop glaring at me and talk to me?"

"It doesn't matter if I tell her every little thing about my life," Casey blurted. "It doesn't...I can't — and she's still going to want to lock me up because she doesn't believe in aliens and she never will."

"This isn't about the aliens."

"Yes, it is," Casey insisted, and heard a tremble in his voice. He couldn't fucking think anymore. He couldn't remember his last sleep.

"Why? Explain that to me."

Stamping his foot felt both silly and satisfying. "Because...because she thinks...!"

"Just calm down and tell me, kitten."

Casey gulped it: "As far as she's concerned...she thinks I'm nuts...and because of what I did to Winona, I'm scary nuts."

"You told her about Winona?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Casey...why?"

"Why not?" he returned bitterly. "I'm a monster who made people disappear from his high school. And Dr. Chakri helped by telling Yves how I'm this ticking time bomb."

Sasha was taking his turn at staring out at the city. "Shit."

"Yeah..." Casey whispered. "I'm fucked."

Sighing, Sasha put a hand on Casey's shoulder, ignoring his recoil. "If you're so fucked, Casey, why aren't you at the hospital right now?"

Casey's eyes were stinging. He didn't want to hear it anymore, didn't want to participate. "Wh-what?" he stuttered.

"It can't be that clear cut. She isn't sure...if she was sure, she wouldn't have let you sign that contract and go home."

Casey shook his head. Of course Yves was just biding her time and he couldn't figure out why Sasha didn't understand that. If there was anything that was obvious to everyone, it was that Casey Connor was a depraved and yet pitiable lunatic, a person who needed to be controlled for his own good and the good of everyone else. He was proving it right now.

Sasha pressed, "Didn't she say at the end of the session that she wanted you to think about something?"

"Yeah..."

"So she's giving you a chance to come clean, Casey, don't you see? Just help yourself and tell her. You tell her about the trouble you get into but you don't tell her why. If she knew why..."

Anger shot through Casey, reviving him for another salvo. He was really tired of hearing this tune. "When are you going to get it?" he gritted. "There's nothing to tell."

"Well...but that's a lie, kitten."

True or not, Sasha had never said such a thing to him before. Casey blinked, trying to adapt to a world where even Sasha thought the worst of him.

"You admitted it to me and Zeke," Sasha elaborated. "That night after the party you said — "

"I didn't — I don't remember!" Casey cried. "That's what I told Zeke in the car, and he must have told you, I know you two talk about me."

Sasha inhaled and exhaled carefully, said, "Zeke did tell me that you had a huge... discussion, and he confronted you about the hotel."

"You and Zeke..." Casey felt something crawl across his cheek; he touched his face, found fresh tears — fuck, they just kept coming. "You both think that I'll just be fixed if I tell her that one thing."

"I don't think that at all. I just think that it's a lot like the aliens. You knew you couldn't get well unless you talked about them."

"It's not — "

"I don't want to argue about it, kitten, it'll just make us both more upset. Will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Casey muttered. Eyes dark with disappointment, Sasha shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, no doubt that he was tired, fed up, it was ultimatum time even though Sasha didn't like ultimatums, deliberate guilt-making was more his style...and Casey threw out an answer before that could happen. "I don't know, okay? I could say yes but it would be a lie."

"Will you at least admit to yourself that it's necessary? Can you do that?"

"I don't know..." His throat worked against him, trying to close off even oblique reference to that. "Don't know if I can do it, Sasha." He glowered at his friend. "I suppose you're going to force me."

"Casey, no...I'd like to help you with it..."

Sasha attempted to soothe him with a touch, a stroke of his arm, and Casey cringed away. It felt unbearable; it felt like a violation even though he knew how it was intended. "Zeke did. He said 'you can't say no to me'." Casey found himself shuddering with rage. "Fucking prick."

"I'm sorry that Zeke did that," Sasha said. "I suppose he only wanted to get things out in the open — "

"Well, he got that!" Casey hugged himself and continued his shaking, spitting up words. "I told him more than he wanted to hear...told him about Thomas."

Across from him, Sasha went absolutely still.

"I told him," Casey said again. "Zeke sent me home...he didn't want me with him."

"No wonder he was so angry on the phone."

"I don't think he'll forgive me."

"He is a jealous kind of person, that's for sure," Sasha observed. "But he's also pretty understanding."

"But he can't bear to be made a fool of...and I've done it to him twice now."

"There's a big difference between sleeping with Roy and a bit of flirting with a stranger, Casey. I'm sure it hurt Zeke's feelings but it's —"

"I would have done it. I wanted it." Ca