This reminds me that I have a lovely black eye. It looks like I was in a bar fight and no one has even mentioned it. What’s the world coming to.

Dwarfs on motorcycles, says Jeremy. Doing stunts and such.

Molly mutters at him to shut up. He winks at me, his mouth full of peanut butter.

Are you high? I say.

Miller sighs. He tells us to ignore him. Jeremy just wants attention, he says.

Jeremy, I say. I want you to apologize to John.

Jeremy laughs, insolently. Miller turns to look at him, a gruesome smile grafted to his face. Jeremy shrugs and offers him a bite of his sandwich and Miller punches him hard, in the stomach. Jeremy is caught completely off guard and goes down in a spastic wheezing heap. Everyone is distracted and I take the opportunity to fuck off. I grab the bread and peanut butter and head downstairs to look in on the boy.

twenty-nine.

THE BOY IS ASLEEP, or appears to be. I crouch beside the bed. His eyes flicker. Long dark lashes that remind me of the wings of a dying moth. There is a spot of blood on his pillow, as if he’s had a nosebleed. I ask him if he feels okay and he doesn’t seem to hear me. There’s a slow trickle of yellow liquid laced with blood coming from his left ear. I touch his face and his skin is so hot. His breathing is shallow and I can barely find his pulse. I pick him up and take the stairs two at a time, yelling for Jude.

I carry the boy into the futuristic living room. The stage lights are blinding. I lay the boy down gingerly on the chrome loveseat. He wears new brown corduroys and a white T-shirt that says there’s no escape from New York. He wears black Chuck Taylors, new and unlaced. His face is pale and the chrome beneath him is polished so bright he looks like he’s asleep on a bed of glass. I chew my fingernails a minute, staring at his shoes. I need to tie those laces before he steps on them and takes a spill. I need to tie those suckers into double knots. I drag my hand through my hair and it comes away dripping with sweat. I holler for Jude, again. I murder her name with my voice and just when I’m about to snap, she appears out of nowhere.

Relax, she says. You would think you’re the father.

What’s wrong with him?

How do I know? she says.

Jude eyes the child as if he is a piece of muddy firewood and she’s reluctant to touch him. But perhaps her ability to remain detached is for the best. She takes a breath, then bends to press her ear to his chest, listening to his lungs.

What is it?

Jude ignores me. Fucking stoic, she is. Now she uses a penlight to examine his eyes, to look into his ears. One by one, the others drift into the room. Molly sits close to me, but not too close. Her face is an unfamiliar mask. Her eyes are black with mascara, her lips painted red. Otherwise, she wears jeans and a T-shirt. Her face is disconcerting. Miller is muttering softly. It sounds like he is calculating figures, running numbers. But then I might be imagining that. Jeremy and Daphne barely pay any attention to us. They are at the bar, arguing in whispers about the proper ingredients for a margarita. Daphne looks like she was in a car wreck and I guess she was. The white bandages on her face are proof that she was chosen by the gods, that she was given one more day to live. Jude is peering into Sam’s little brown eyes as if they are a deep, dark wishing well and she is wondering just how much cash is down there.

Jude, I say. Talk to me.

I may be wrong, she says. He seems to have an ear infection, which is causing the fever.

The shit oozing from his ear, I say. That’s normal?

Drainage, she says. He probably burst his eardrum.

That’s bad, right? That’s bad.

It’s not the end of the world.

I stare at her. He needs his eardrum, I say.

The eardrum will repair itself.

He’s barely breathing.

Jude nods. I’m not sure what’s causing that. Maybe an allergic reaction.

I shake my head. The boy’s eyeball could be hanging out of his skull by a fucking bloody thread and butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue.

There’s no reason to get nasty.

No, I say. What are you going to do?

Jude stands up as if to go.

What are you doing? I say.

I’m going to the bathroom, she says. Will you please fucking relax. Have a drink, or something.

I would love a drink. I wish someone would bring me one.

Molly slips away and everything seems to go on autopilot until she returns. She hands me a glass of vodka, with ice.

Thank you, I say.

He watches too much television, says Molly. That’s what it is. When my baby comes, I won’t let her watch so much TV.

I glance at Molly and I feel like I just swallowed a bug.

You aren’t really pregnant, I say. You know that, right?

She stares at me for a moment too long. Of course, she says.

The boy is pale and catatonic against chrome. His breath comes thin and slow. The grim hiss of air seeping in and out of his lungs.

Does anyone have a cigarette, says Jude.

She stands over us, a small bottle of liquid Benadryl in one hand and a blue can of Pepsi in the other. There’s a white plastic eyedropper stuck between her lips like a cigar.

I can’t wait to hear your plan, I say.

Trust me, she says.

Jeremy brings over a glowing tray of margaritas. He gives Jude a cigarette and lights it for her. I try to meet his eye and now it occurs to me that there is a shadowy area of my mind that has somehow accepted him as a brother. I don’t like this idea and I remind myself to harden my heart against the script.

I have an overwhelming urge to get outside. To get the fuck away.

But I look around and the boy remains on the chrome loveseat, feverish and barely breathing. Molly is a ghost at the edge of my vision, her mouth so small and dark it might be a scar. Her hands fidgeting, fidgeting. I get the feeling she wants to hold my hand but is reluctant to do so, maybe because Jude is watching. Maybe because I just suggested that she’s nuts. Miller appears and reappears across from me, his eyes closed. Jeremy is whispering something apparently pornographic to Daphne and she is laughing, covering her wet mouth with her fist. I drain my vodka and place it carefully on the floor, then take one of the margaritas from Jeremy’s tray. There is thick salt around the mouth of the glass and I lick at it, hungry.

Jude lifts the boy into her lap and holds him so that he’s sitting up. She twice fills the eyedropper with liquid Benadryl and pushes it between Sam’s pale lips.

Jude looks at me. The antihistamine, she says. It will reduce the swelling in his ears.

And the Pepsi?

I don’t know, she says. The sugar and caffeine should give his heart a jumpstart and maybe that will help his breathing.

I nod, silent. It makes as much sense as anything.

Jude frowns. He needs antibiotics, probably.

He needs to see a doctor.

But we can’t take him to a doctor, says Jude. Her voice is slow and gentle, as if I am the child.

Jude begins to funnel Pepsi into the boy’s mouth, her eyes downcast and lips pursed. She blows softly on his face. He coughs and Pepsi dribbles between his open lips. She wipes it away with the back of her hand. How tender she is. I don’t quite recognize her.

Sam wakes up, now. The boy is disoriented and unhappy. He doesn’t like the idea that everyone is looking at him. I can sympathize. He turns his head and I don’t think he knows where he is. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of us and he does not come to me for comfort. He allows Jude to hold him, to wrap her arms around him. He rests his head on her shoulder, his eyes flat and glassy. Jude blows softly on his hair and whispers to him in a way that angers me. Because lately I want her to be the villain. I want her to be the one who dies in the end.