When we get to the park, the tarot kids are all sitting on or around the rock where I met them, talking among themselves and having a good time. They’ve brought blankets and pillows and beanbags, as well as more pots of soup and Thermoses of hot chocolate and coffee than I can count. One of them, a towering raver with pink hair and platform boots, is serving what appears to be eggnog with Count Chocula floating in it from a big glass bowl. And all around it’s costumes and candy, mummies and werewolves and Power Rangers hitting joints and swinging bottles.

We sidle up to Randall, Casey, and Tollevin (Freddy Krueger, Austin Powers, and Rick James, respectively), who’re sitting in the middle of the crowd, laughing loudly over glasses of apple cider. Randall and Casey are still more reserved around each other than they’ve ever been, occasionally stealing glances out of the corner of their eyes. Randall has especially taken his time letting Casey and me back into his good graces, but it seems to be wearing on him, and he’s almost back to his old self. We realized, after everything exploded into insanity, that we couldn’t help but be friends at this point. It was a dirty job, yeah, but who else would we want to spend time with? Without one another, what was there?

They hail us over when we’re seen and start firing questions at me about Lon’s birthday party. But there’s one thing that everyone’s curious about.

“For fuck’s sake, Stockenbarrel,” whines Randall, “can we see it?”

I turn around and lift my shirt, feeling the weather run its biting fingers down my spine. Everyone oohs and aahs at the tattoo, one or two of them reaching out and touching it. When I turn around, they all sound their approval.

“Cute,” says Casey, smiling crookedly. “If only there was a superhero named the Black. There’d probably be some sort of racial protest, though, I’m sure.”

“Nice job, Stockenbarrel. If there was ever a dude who needed a tramp stamp, it’s you.”

“Well, now that we’re done jerking each other off,” says Tollevin, laying his hands on the bongos in his lap. He starts tapping out an almost tribal beat, and then from somewhere in the crowd of misfits and crazies, another set of drums joins him, and then another, and then another.

Randall pulls his guitar out of its case and begins plucking. His eyes shoot to Casey, and he says, “You’re gonna sing this one for me, right?”

Casey sighs dramatically. “If you insist.” Looking upward, he yells out, “IT BEGINS!”

A sound starts going, but not the normally jovial one that I remember from the first night here. This one is darker, with a little more of a bite to it. Casey closes his eyes and starts singing in a deep, slippery voice.

“‘Here come the man…look in his eye…’”

The crowd starts hooting and hollering, and more and more people join in. I don’t know the song, but Renée does, and she squeezes my arm as the first chorus comes up. The words hit me, and I can’t help laughing.

“‘The devil inside, the devil inside, every single one of us the devil inside…’” Casey’s eyes pop open onto me, and he winks once, conspiratorially. I wink back and start singing with the rest of the group.

The whole thing seems dark and ritualistic, but it feels like home. I can’t bring myself to feel awkward or strange or upset around these people, and even though a little part of me almost wants to complain about something-the cold, the song, anything-I can’t. Every person before me is a person, but they’re a world before that. We are all time bombs and angels, poisons and antidotes, question marks and commas, and it suits me just fine.

As the chorus finally swells, I look up into the sky, which is a perfect, miserable gray. I can’t help it, and I start crying softly, tears crawling down my cheek while my voice never wavers. I look over at Casey and see that he’s crying too. Renée lights two cigarettes and hands one to me, which I smoke happily.

And when the song finishes, I’m still here. And for once, I don’t think that makes anything worse.

I SAW it before it saw me. That made me incredibly happy.

There was no mistaking it. To everyone else in the park, it probably resembled a grandmother, a hobo, a stoner kid playing Frisbee, but I could see it. The shadowy body. The eyes, blinking in random patterns. The mouth, a burbling gash in its pitch-black face. It had been skulking around town, trying to find a new host, to recreate what we had. Stupid. I could see it. It was mine.

Just as my eyes hit it, it got its first look at me. It stayed frozen in place, hoping I wouldn’t be able to tell what it was, who it was. That was bullshit, of course. When you had a relationship like ours, there’s no chance of staying hidden. I’d followed it to the park, and there it was, slithering its way across a warm Sheep Meadow in broad daylight.

“Get back here!” I screamed, and then I was barreling across the grass, putting my shoulder down. As I got close, it reared up to its full height and stretched its arms out. Maybe it was trying to scare me off. Maybe it was trying to grow wings and flap away like the batty monster it was. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it looked weaker, more vulnerable, than it had ever appeared before.

I slammed into it like a refrigerator, sending both of us sprawling into a heap. The minute I got my bearings, I was up on my knees, straddling it, my hand around its thin black throat. It made a shrieking noise and raked at me with its claws, but their taloned ends snapped and shattered when they connected with my flesh.

“You little shit,” I hissed through my teeth. “You thought you could get away with all this, didn’t you? You thought you didn’t need me?”

My other hand clenched into a fist and smashed into the thing’s twisted face. The blow sank into its countenance, like the monster was made out of pudding.

“Well, it ain’t gonna happen, and y’know why?”

The thing made a sound, like a rabbit that’s been hit by a car, and writhed beneath my fist.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

This was my fist. My skin, my bone, my sweat. This was my victory and also my fault.

“BECAUSE,” I said, leaning in and hissing right in its fucking face, “I’M BLACKLIGHT, YOU HIGHFALUTIN SON OF A BITCH, AND YOU’LL DO WELL TO FUCKING REMEMBER IT!”

My hand came out of its head with a horrible little plop. I shook the grass and dirt off my shirt, and got to my feet. When I was finally a little less unkempt, I looked down at the beast at my feet, inching away like a wounded animal, claws shielding its eyes.

“C’mon,” I said, hiking my thumb back toward the city, “let’s go back.”

The thing lowered its claws a little bit and blinked at me in puzzlement.

“Are you coming with me or not?”

It tilted its head.

“Well, I’m going,” I said. “Come if you like.”

I turned back to the skyline and began to trot slowly over the grass, basking in the sunlight and the smells of the park, the burning heat of the light off the city’s million windows. After a moment or two, I heard it get up and begin to follow me a few paces behind, just a little scared of what it might have created.