And now he was tired. He had tried. It was one thirty p.m. on Friday, the Friday of July Fourth weekend. He put on his clothes. He closed his studio’s windows and locked the door and walked down the stairs of the silent building. “Chen,” he said, his voice loud in the stairwell, pretending he was broadcasting a warning to his fellow artists, that he was communicating to someone who might need his help. “Chen, Chen, Chen.” He was going home, he was going to smoke.

He woke to a horrible noise, the noise of machinery, of metal grinding against metal, and started screaming into his pillow to drown it out until he realized it was the buzzer, and then slowly brought himself to his feet, and slouched over to the door. “Jackson?” he asked, holding down the intercom button, and he heard how frightened he sounded, how tentative.

There was a pause. “No, it’s us,” said Malcolm. “Let us in.” He did.

And then there they all were, Malcolm and Jude and Willem, as if they had come to see him perform a show. “Willem,” he said. “You’re supposed to be in Cappadocia.”

“I just got back yesterday.”

“But you’re supposed to be gone until”—he knew this—“July sixth. That’s when you said you’d be back.”

“It’s July seventh,” Willem said, quietly.

He started to cry, then, but he was dehydrated and he didn’t have any tears, just the sounds. July seventh: he had lost so many days. He couldn’t remember anything.

“JB,” said Jude, coming close to him, “we’re going to get you out of this. Come with us. We’re going to get you help.”

“Okay,” he said, still crying. “Okay, okay.” He kept his blanket wrapped around him, he was so cold, but he allowed Malcolm to lead him to the sofa, and when Willem came over with a sweater, he held his arms up obediently, the way he had when he was a child and his mother had dressed him. “Where’s Jackson?” he asked Willem.

“Jackson’s not going to bother you,” he heard Jude say, somewhere above him. “Don’t worry, JB.”

“Willem,” he said, “when did you stop being my friend?”

“I’ve never stopped being your friend, JB,” Willem said, and sat down next to him. “You know I love you.”

He leaned against the sofa and closed his eyes; he could hear Jude and Malcolm talking to each other, quietly, and then Malcolm walking toward the other end of the apartment, where his bedroom was, and the plank of wood being lifted and then dropped back into place, and the flush of the toilet.

“We’re ready,” he heard Jude say, and he stood, and Willem stood with him, and Malcolm came over to him and put his arm across his back and they shuffled as a group toward the door, where he was gripped by a terror: if he went outside, he knew he would see Jackson, appearing as suddenly as he had that day in the café.

“I can’t go,” he said, stopping. “I don’t want to go, don’t make me go.”

“JB,” Willem began, and something about Willem’s voice, about his very presence, made him in that moment irrationally furious, and he shook Malcolm’s arm off of him and turned to face them, energy flooding his body. “You don’t get a say in what I do, Willem,” he said. “You’re never here and you’ve never supported me and you never called me, and you don’t get to come in making fun of me—poor, stupid, fucked-up JB, I’m Willem the Hero, I’m coming in to save the day—just because you want to, okay? So leave me the fuck alone.”

“JB, I know you’re upset,” Willem said, “but no one’s making fun of you, least of all me,” but before he’d begun speaking, JB had seen Willem look over, quickly, and, it seemed, conspiratorially, at Jude, and for some reason this had made him even more livid. What had happened to the days when they all understood one another, when he and Willem had gone out every weekend, when they had returned the next day to share the night’s stories with Malcolm and Jude, Jude who never went anywhere, who never shared stories of his own? How had it happened that he was the one who was all alone? Why had they left him for Jackson to pick over and destroy? Why hadn’t they fought harder for him? Why had he ruined it all for himself? Why had they let him? He wanted to devastate them; he wanted them to feel as inhuman as he did.

“And you,” he said, turning to Jude. “You like knowing how fucked up I am? You like always being the person who gets to learn everyone else’s secrets, without ever telling us a single fucking thing? What do you think this is, Jude? You think you get to be a part of the club and you never have to say anything, you never have to tell us anything? Well, it doesn’t fucking work like that, and we’re all fucking sick of you.”

“That’s enough, JB,” Willem said sharply, grabbing his shoulder, but he was strong suddenly, and he wrenched out of Willem’s grasp, his feet unexpectedly nimble, dancing toward the bookcase like a boxer. He looked at Jude, who was standing in silence, his face very still and his eyes very large, almost as if he was waiting for him to continue, waiting for JB to hurt him further. The first time he had painted Jude’s eyes, he had gone to a pet store to take photographs of a rough green snake because the colors were so similar. But in that moment they were darker, almost like a grass snake’s, and he wished, ridiculously, that he had his paints, because he knew that if he had them, he’d be able to get the shade exactly right without even having to try.

“It doesn’t work like that,” he said to Jude again. And then, before he knew it, he was doing Jackson’s imitation of Jude, the hideous parody, his mouth open as Jackson had done it, making an imbecile’s moan, dragging his right leg behind him as if it were made of stone. “I’m Jude,” he slurred. “I’m Jude St. Francis.” For a few seconds, his was the only voice in the room, his movements the only movements, and in those seconds, he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t stop. And then Willem had run at him, and the last thing he had seen was Willem drawing his fist back, and the last thing he had heard was the cracking of bone.

He woke and didn’t know where he was. It was difficult to breathe. Something was on his nose, he realized. But when he tried to lift his hand to feel what it was, he couldn’t. And then he had looked down and seen that his wrists were in restraints, and he knew he was in the hospital. He closed his eyes and remembered: Willem had hit him. Then he remembered why, and he shut his eyes very tightly, howling but not making a noise.

The moment passed and he opened his eyes again. He turned his head to the left, where an ugly blue curtain blocked his view of the door. And then he turned his head to the right, toward the early-morning light, and saw Jude, asleep in the chair next to his bed. The chair was too small for him to sleep in, and he had folded himself into a terrible-looking position: his knees drawn up to his chest, his cheek resting atop them, his arms wrapped around his calves.

You know you shouldn’t sleep like that, Jude, he told him in his head. Your back is going to hurt when you wake up. But even if he could have reached his arm over to wake him, he wouldn’t have.

Oh god, he thought. Oh god. What have I done?

I’m sorry, Jude, he said in his head, and this time he was able to cry properly, the tears running into his mouth, the mucus that he was unable to clean away bubbling over as well. But he was silent; he didn’t make any noise. I’m sorry, Jude, I’m so sorry, he repeated to himself, and then he whispered the words aloud, but quietly, so quietly that he could hear only his lips opening and closing, nothing more. Forgive me, Jude. Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

[ IV ] The Axiom of Equality

1

THE NIGHT BEFORE he leaves for Boston for their friend Lionel’s wedding, he gets a message from Dr. Li telling him that Dr. Kashen has died. “It was a heart attack; very fast,” Dr. Li writes. The funeral is Friday afternoon.