Clark and Division. A weird-ass place to live. Lincoln Park to the north, all that prosperity: Tree-shrouded sidewalks, little dogs yipping in graystone windows, the streets safe at three A.M. And south of him, the Loop, bristling with skyscrapers where the Lincoln Parkers made their inexplicable livings. Then here, smack in the middle, his corner. One block of ghetto-light carved out of the otherwise pristine Gold Coast, courtesy of the #70 bus connecting the Red Line and Cabrini Green. Twenty-four-seven, guys hanging out by the Currency Exchange, the sandwich shop. Late some nights he'd hear the hookers fighting, hollering the way only pissed-off black women could. But the studio was cheap and month-to-month, and that was about all the thought he'd put into it.

The smell of coffee pulled him from his reverie. The girl had found two mugs and was pouring carefully. Jason never knew how to handle the morning after, if they were supposed to hug and kiss like a real couple. Her eyes were blue and steady, but she didn't make any moves. He opted just to squeeze her arm as he took a cup, and she smiled, then pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. "I'll just have one before I go."

"Take your time." The coffee tasted great, strong and bitter.

She smiled again, then glanced around the kitchen as if she looking for a topic of conversation. There wasn't much – a pantry with folding doors, a couple of dishes in the sink, a bottle of Jim Beam on the counter, grade-school analog clock on the wall. Finally her tour brought her full circle, her eyes back to rest on his. She hesitated, then said, "Were you really in Iraq?"

"First Brigade, Twenty-fifth Infantry."

"Can I ask you something?"

He said, "Sure," but sighed inwardly.

"What's it…" She paused, stared down at her cup. "What's it like?" When she looked back up at him, it was with something like lust in her eyes. He recognized the look, saw it all the time. Like pulling back a curtain, you could watch people change. Their inner darkness hungry to know what it felt like to get wet. Wanting him to tell them horrible, delicious things. The sexiest porn in the world.

"Hot," he said, then stood and opened the refrigerator. Leftover Thai. When had he gotten it? He opened the container and sniffed. Seemed okay, though how spoiled curry would smell different from regular curry he couldn't say. He found a takeaway packet with a napkin, chopsticks, soy. He split the chopsticks, rubbed them together, then scooped up a mouthful of noodles. Tasted fine.

"That's it?" she asked, turning to look at him. "Hot?"

He shrugged. "Noisy."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"Want some?" He offered her the takeout container. She stared at him, and he sighed. "Look, it was hot, it was noisy. I was there, now I'm back."

"Okay," she said.

They small-talked through the rest of the coffee. After about twenty minutes, she made a point of looking at the clock, and he smiled to let her know it was no problem, that he was easy. He washed the mugs, then leaned on the counter to look at her. Watching a woman get dressed had always felt nearly as sexy as the opposite. She scrunched up her face at a rip in her stockings, decided to do without. Covered the blue panties with a black skirt and pulled on a fitted shirt that clung to her body.

"Listen," she said, moving to him, "About what I said-"

"Don't worry about it."

"It's just, I was curious. I didn't mean to go to a bad place or anything."

He shook his head. "It's fine."

"Okay." She took one of his fingers in her hand, played with it idly, eyes down. For a moment she looked like a little girl. Then she straightened and said, "So, good-bye."

"You're not going to leave your number?"

She smiled. "Any point?"

He laughed, and for a moment, wanted to say, Hell yes. She was sexy and smart and self-possessed, and he ought to consider himself lucky for the chance.

Then he thought ahead to the way it would end. The way it always did.

She saw his hesitation, shook her head. "It's okay. It was nice to meet you." Then she opened the door and stepped out, giving him a little wave using just her fingers. The walls were thin, and he could hear her heels click all the way down the hall.

"Shit." Jason scooped the container of noodles from the table and tossed it in the trash.

He made his bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners. Ready to bounce a quarter off. Then he stretched, and hit the deck for push-ups. Normally he did a hundred neat snaps with hands beneath his shoulders, followed by fifty arms-wide. But he thought of Jackie, the way he hadn't had the balls to tell her yes, and forced himself into another fifty of each, no break. He was panting by the end, shoulders and chest sore, the mop of bangs he'd let grow since his return sticky against his forehead.

Standing, he spotted his cell phone. He thought about dialing Michael, apologizing for getting worked up. Guy was an asshole sometimes, but they were still brothers.

Instead he went to the bathroom and showered off his sweat and the smell of the girl's perfume.

The chrome on the Beretta was shiny, but the works were filthy. Besides not knowing how to hold a weapon, Soul Patch obviously didn't have a clue how to maintain one. Jason ejected the magazine and set it on the table, then checked the chamber for rounds. When he was sure it was clear, he held down the disassembly latch and removed the slide, then the recoil spring and barrel. He set each piece on the kitchen table, enjoying the feeling of the routine. Maintenance was a simple, methodical process. It was something you could do without thinking, the way some people painted models or knit sweaters. Just a way to defocus the mind. And it felt good to hold a weapon again. After years of having one in arm's reach every moment, he felt naked without. Silly, really; his need to be armed had died months ago, when he walked out of the Administrative Discharge Board.

The thought made him grind his teeth.

Enough, he thought, and blew at a speck of dust. So his old life was over. So it had ended badly. So what? People moved on. They forgave themselves, rebuilt their lives. Managed, somehow, to be happy again. It happened all the time. Right?

Jason gave the barrel another buff with the cloth, then slotted it back in place and tightened it with the spring. Fit the slide back on, then inserted the magazine.

It was no wonder he pictured his guilt as a Worm, thin and segmented, blind and pale. Like some foul eel from the ocean's darkest chasm. With razor teeth it was slowly eating him, a bite at a time. Would it eventually die?

Or just feast until there was nothing left?

He hoisted the Beretta and reversed it. Pointed it dead center of his face, in that spot where his eyes fought for focus. A shiver ran down his thighs. It would take so little. Just the smallest squeeze of his thumb. A short dance of muscles and a fire exploding in his brain, and then gone. No more Worm, no more memories. Just blackness cool as the shadow inside the gun barrel.

There was a knock at the door.

The sound jerked him from his trance. In the two months he'd lived here, he couldn't recall anyone knocking. He was halfway to the door before he realized he still had the Beretta in one hand.

What was he, the freaking Unabomber? Moping around alone and cleaning a gun?

The knock came again.

"Just a minute." He looked for a place to stash it. Furniture hadn't been a top priority. He grimaced, then locked the safety and tucked the gun in his pants like a Tarantino gangster. At the door, he peered through the peephole. Nothing but the neighboring door.

Then he heard something that stopped his heart.

"Uncle Jason?"