“Okay.”

“I love you, Jack.”

*   *   *

Dr. Enbody tried to be nice.

He told me how long he’d known me, and how much I’d grown, but he asked if I’d been eating enough, too, and said that I should probably start going to a regular doctor, now that I was sixteen.

He made me lie down and he pressed his fingers into my belly and thumped on my rib cage. He peered up my nose and into my ears. He looked me straight in the eyes and asked about “bowel movements” and what color my urine was; if I had any concerns or trouble with my penis and testicles.

I shook my head.

Then he asked if I’d been “sexually active with girls or with other boys,” and I almost choked. But I told him yes, that I had a girlfriend. And that pissed me off, too, but I wasn’t sure exactly why.

I was so embarrassed, I guess. So Dr. Enbody told me that I’d better be using condoms, and I lied and said I always used condoms because I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and go away. I’d never even touched a rubber, and I couldn’t imagine having balls enough to go into a 7-11 and buy a box of them.

It was the stupidest thing I ever had to talk about in my life.

When I closed my eyes, I saw Freddie Horvath, so I just kept watching Dr. Enbody until my eyes started watering.

He took my blood pressure and listened to my heart. He pressed an icy stethoscope onto my back and asked me to cough; then took my temperature. He tried to joke about how he used to do it when I was a baby, and I asked him if he ever mixed up thermometers, which made him smile.

Then he started doing the sneaky thing that normal doctors do when they can’t find what seems to be the trouble: He began asking me questions about what I did in England, and how was the jet lag, and had I gotten back to regular sleeping patterns. Did I like English food? Did I try the beer there? I knew exactly where he was going, but it didn’t piss me off. He wasn’t trying to fuck with me—not like that other doctor. Dr. Enbody was just doing what Wynn and Stella paid him to do, so I answered his questions without volunteering anything else.

How was I getting along with my friends? Was there anything that bothered me about myself? Was I having bad dreams? Getting enough sleep? Did I think I was too fat?

I joked. Yeah, I’m on the cross-country team. I’m a planet.

Welcome to Jack’s universe.

Dr. Enbody laughed. It sounded like he really understood me.

For a minute, I tried to think what it might be like to actually talk to him—to tell him what happened to me. Not the Marbury stuff, the Glenbrook shit. I tried imagining what it would be like if I could let the words come out of my mouth. And I almost started to say it, but I couldn’t.

He poked me and felt the alignment of my spine, bent my knees, and rotated my shoulders.

I answered his questions.

Then he went downstairs.

*   *   *

As soon as he was far enough away, I slipped out my door after him. Quiet, barefoot, nearly naked, I felt like something wild. Like a murderer.

Of course I knew exactly where to sit on the staircase so I could hear what was going on downstairs.

I knew Wynn wouldn’t be there. He never wanted to have anything to do with stuff like doctors and problems and fixing things. Those were Stella’s specialties.

So I heard Dr. Enbody telling her that he wanted to have her bring me in to his office this week so he could take a blood and urine sample from me.

Great.

Stella wanted to know if he thought I was on drugs or something, but the doctor told her no, he just wanted to see if anything was going on with me. He said my blood pressure was a little high, like I was stressed about something. And he got this condescending and calm tone in his voice when he said that teenage boys often have anxiety issues and get sulky when they’re my age, so Stella shouldn’t worry too much about it—it was all routine kind of stuff. Then he started asking her things about if she noticed I was getting depressed, not sleeping, maybe sleeping too much, or if I talked about dying or suicide.

That’s when I wanted to punch the wall.

I didn’t want to hear anything else.

Fuck this place.

I got up and went back into my room.

I lay on my bed, listening to the crows, waiting to hear Dr. Enbody’s car drive away.

Conner.

I grabbed my phone and dialed.

*   *   *

“What’s up?”

“Hey, Con.”

“Dude. I thought you were coming over.”

“Yeah. Stella made me see a doctor.”

Conner laughed. “Did he need to do surgery to get your head out of your ass?”

That was Conner.

This was real.

“Nice mouth.”

“Shit. What did he do?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

I sat up in bed. Outside, I could hear the doctor’s car start up. “Hey, Con, did something weird happen yesterday?”

Conner said, “Uh-oh. Are you tripping out about that shit again?”

Freddie.

“No. I mean, yesterday, after we broke that lens. Did something weird happen to you?”

I waited for Conner to answer.

“Um. What lens, Jack?”

I chuckled. I thought it sounded stupid. Like Quinn Cahill. “Don’t fuck with me, Conner.”

“Okay. So, we broke some lens? And then what?”

“You know. Marbury.”

“Did Stella’s doctor give you any meds, Jack? It sure sounds like you’re on dope to me. And can you bring the whole bottle over? I want to try some of that shit.”

I knew Conner. He sucked at acting dumb for more than a line or two.

He really didn’t know what I was talking about.

Fuck you, Jack.

“Yeah. Well. Maybe he did give me something.”

And it fucked up your brain, Jack.

“Can you operate a motor vehicle or heavy machinery?” Conner laughed.

“Do you remember when we were over at Ben and Griffin’s house?”

“Who?”

“Ben and Griffin.”

“Jack. What the fuck are you talking about? Is this something about that shit with that Freddie guy? Are you still fucked up about that? Dude.”

It was Conner. He was frustrated.

“You’re really not fucking with me, are you, Con?”

“Maybe you’re just stressed about going back to England or something. Did you just wake up? ’Cause you sound fucked up, Jack.”

“You don’t know anyone named Ben and Griffin?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“I’m coming over.”

“Let’s go grab some food or something.”

Or something.

*   *   *

I slipped into a pair of shorts and threw a T-shirt over my shoulder.

When I sat on the edge of the bed so I could get my socks and shoes, I thought about the glasses on the floor.

Maybe he was just fucking with me.

That was something Conner would do.

But not about this.

Never about this.

I switched my phone back on, flipped through my contacts list.

No Ben Miller.

No Griffin Goodrich.

Fuck you, Jack.

I reached under my bed and picked up the glasses. The third lens was swung out from the bigger eyepiece. There wasn’t anything there; nothing living inside the lenses. I put my fingers on the outer monocle. I wanted to flip it into place, just for a second, just so I could prove to myself that I wasn’t insane—that somehow I’d really fucked everything up. Everywhere.

Welcome to Jack’s universe.

I had to put things back where they belonged.

I slid the glasses into my pocket, and their weight almost dragged my shorts down. Maybe Dr. Nobody was right; that I wasn’t eating enough.

Who cared about that, anyway?

I fucked up.

I went into the hallway and slipped out of the house without Stella even noticing I was ever there at all.

seven

I guess it was Jack’s day for black cars.

*   *   *

When I walked across the lawn toward the blot of shade at the curb where I park my truck, a big Cadillac SUV with blacked-out windows and no license plates pulled up and stopped right in front of me.