We played backgammon on the hood while we waited for a Triple-A jump and when that was done the day ended again but began once more when we stopped for dinner and afterward the engine wouldn't turn. Triple-A again but this time we waited inside, at the bar – the first time I'd ever had a drink with my mom, anywhere – and Jack and Hand acted like it was natural and good – better here than in Hand's basement, where we used to shotgun Old Milwaukees before going out looking to steal Melinda Aghani's Cabriolet. But for me, with my mom here, and them here, it was the collision of worlds and every sip confused me. Jack told his story about how his sister Molly said, at thirteen, that she'd never have sex, ever. Why? Because do you know what makes a penis erect that way? Blood! A penis full of blood! Jack did her voice perfectly, the deafening shrillness, the indignance of a matron offended. My mom was loving it, not only because she didn't like Molly much – no one did – but because Jack and Hand knew my mom wanted to be treated without deference and they obliged, they didn't change a word for her. Her hair was so short then. She'd gone the way of a few of her friends and gotten the middle-aged short cut, the Liza Minelli, a helmet with curls licking her temples. It made her look too intense, her eyes too big, cheekbones too strong. But she was in love with this day and it was obvious she didn't want the jump, didn't want to leave the bar. She listened to Hand's tale of hiding his dead cat in his room, when he was seven, to prevent it from being buried. He couldn't stand the idea of burying anything, and so first put the cat in an old Lego box, but ants took over swarming, so he later cut open the belly of a stuffed bear and kept the cat's stiff decomposing body inside the bear's stomach, above his dresser, until the smell, in August, was too dense and he was found out. My mom listened and her eyes were so wide and so full of glee that with the hair she seemed bordering on madness. We didn't get home until twelve, but she was up all night, talking to Cathy Wambat in Hawaii, recounting every moment, her periodic shrieks of laughter keeping me up, though I'd never let her know.

Hand was back, with a look like a sigh. Olga was behind him, with a grim smile.

"We better head out," he said.

"Okay," I said.

"Well," he said, looking sheepishly to Olga, "I have a big meeting in the morning. In the courthouse. Big trial. I better get some shut-eye. Wish me luck."

Shut-eye. Courthouse. Trial.

"Good luck," she said. I gave her $100, on top of what we paid for the drinks, about $6 each.

Outside, in the wretched furious cold and on the cobblestone, Hand apologized for staying so long. I said not to worry.

He was, clearly, more interested in the bear-baiting than in Olga.

"Can you believe that, that they take the teeth out of the bear?"

We were walking quickly in the direction of the hotel.

"The massage? Was it any good?" I asked.

"She did a private dance for me."

"A lapdance."

"Sort of," Hand said. "But here they set you up in a room, like a seventies basement. Blue lights and modular furniture, CD rack. She lets you choose the music."

"And?"

"She dances around. She's really bad as a dancer. She was so shy when we were alone."

"She touch you?"

Oh Charlotte, there were times, my friend, in bed with you, when I would grasp what was going on, would see you, all of you, your bursting flesh, your curves of such generosity, absurdity, and would find myself looking at you through the eyes of me at sixteen. My sixteen-year-old self would be peeping through my new old body and would see you and say Holy fucking shit! Holy fucking shit! And you would be there, so calm, smiling. It's your calm that I loved more than anything, Charlotte, why I always wanted to be with you, why just watching afternoon gameshows on TV with you – The way there was no joke that would get past you, not one that you couldn't throw back but in a better shape – We laughed in bed! When you laugh in bed everything else should be so easy -

"Not much. She took off my shirt, rubbed my chest a little. I was just sitting there. She was laughing, I was laughing. I don't know if people ever get serious about that shit. Like if anyone can be in that situation going, 'Yeah, lady, this is the fucking best! Do that private dancing!' I mean, it's such an inherently funny situation. Like a singing telegram."

We were walking back in the direction of the hotel, ready to grab a cab if any were still operating.

"I have to see about the bear-baiting, though. That just kills me," Hand said. I knew he'd be stuck on this for a while.

"Yeah, I don't know," I said. "People like that kind of thing."

"I guess. I guess. It satisfies a pretty basic human desire, right? To see a big mighty bear killed by smaller, meaner animals, right? People love that kind of thing. That'll teach the bear, they think."

"Right."

"And they have to cheat to beat the bear, right? And gang up. They weaken the bear, one attack at a time. They take his teeth and claws out, chain him down and then they attack. It's a joke. On its own, who can take on a bear? No one."

"An elephant," I said.

"No."

"Elephants kill. I read that."

"I know, but see, it wouldn't kill a bear. The weird thing about most huge animals like that is that they don't really give a shit about the dogs or rats or whatever. The bear minds his own business, until the day when the men or dogs decide to rip his teeth out and fight him for sport. They drug the bulls they kill in Spain, too."

"What?" He was veering.

"Those are the sorriest bulls there are! Those bulls are half-dead by the time they get in the ring. There just aren't any fair fights with these animals. And what kind of diseased, disturbed, stupid fucker would want to kill some great animal, I mean -"

"I'm not disagreeing with you." My toes were numb. "It's freezing Hand, can we keep moving?" He'd stopped walking and was gesturing emphatically. I couldn't concentrate. My blood felt like it was leaving me, replaced by crystals that scratched from within.

We jogged back toward the hotel and Hand continued, through visible exhalations. My chest felt so tight, the pressure of the air inside and outside so intense, so active. A pounding -

"So look at it this way," Hand said. "How many people have really witnessed, in person, violent acts in their lifetimes? A pretty small percentage, outside of playground stuff, little fights with sticks or whatever, right? But just as the world was becoming, like, evermore civilized, TV and movies brought violence to everyone, fuck it's cold -"

"I can't feel my ankles."

"Ankles? Really?"

"That happens to me. Can we sit down?"

"In this cold? We're better off walking."

Something was thundering from within my chest, a beating on my breastplate. This was new. "You're right," I said. We kept walking. I scanned the roads that bordered the park, for cabs.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You're holding your stomach. Was it dinner?"

"No, no. I'm good."

"Cramp?"

"No."

He gave me a untrusting look. "We should just keep heading this way. I can see the church next to the hotel."

"Good," I said. "I need to lie down."

We walked toward the steeple. There was such a weird tightness, a new kind of grip, lower in my chest. I was just starting to really examine the pain, map it -

I dropped. I landed under a bench at the edge of the park and was flooded with warmth. It was so warm, so many creeping-quickly vines spreading throughout my limbs and torso and all so hot, such a liquid heat within me – I dreamt of my face in dirt. My head was burrowing through soft black soil, was pushing its way through, twisting and clawing, without fingers. The dirt felt so warm. I opened my eyes. I was on my back.