The third set of calls were, Todd supposed, like the last days of a former hit show, the kind where all the original writers and producers are long gone, but some of the cast are still hanging in there, and loyal fans still tune in, but the magic has dried up. There were only three or four of these calls, and they were pretty short. Mostly they went like this:

Janis would invite the caller to speak after the beep. There would be the longest pause. And then Billy would just start crying. Sometimes he’d cry for a few seconds, sniffle and then hang up. Sometimes he’d cry and gulp and try and speak and then hang up. And sometimes he’d just cry and cry and cry for so long that the tape would beep and cut him off.

Todd didn’t say much during these calls. They were distressing, even for him. And also he was getting tired, and needed to direct all his effort into his writing. The typewriter was an Iron Maiden that never seemed to get any less hungry, whereas Todd was running low on energy bars and, indeed, energy. So he just sat there while Billy huffed and sniffed and cried. And sometimes Todd cried too.

*  *  *

There was one final call, and it was not like the others. Billy sounded different again. Weak, but determined, like a kitten at the bottom of a well that was doing its darnedest to get out again.

“Todd,” he said. “I know you’re there ’cos I can see you.”

Todd started. He looked out the window, but it was night and there was nothing there but the moon.

“I know you’re listening right now, too,” Billy said. “I can see you, sitting at that thing, letting it use you.”

Todd actually looked around. “Billy,” he said, and immediately felt foolish.

“I suspect I don’t have much time,” said Billy. “It’s got—”

And he giggled. It wasn’t a very nice giggle.

“It’s got its teeth into me,” he said.

Todd felt his guts freeze at that. He had no idea what Billy meant, but he doubted he was talking about his drink problem. Todd was pretty sure Billy was using neither metaphor nor simile. He was talking about real fucking teeth.

“So I’ll just say this,” Billy went on. “Whatever you’re doing, you better stop now. I know you’re going to say you can’t stop. Listen to me, you fucking jerk. I loathe you. I always did. But what I say now I say for the good of your soul. Which I maintain is a separate and more deserving entity.”

Todd remained silent. He had never heard Billy talk like this. Probably nobody had since about 1957.

“Stop it now. Walk away. It’ll hurt, but you can do it. If you don’t…”

The giggle again.