“Shit,” he moaned. He sat down heavily on a stool. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’m sure you’re under a lot of pressure,” said Behm, not sounding too sympathetic. “And I’ve had worse. You weren’t even armed. But I’m not going on with this, Mr. Milstead. It’s too fucking—”

The word came into Todd’s head just as Behm said it.

“—weird.”

*  *  *

Todd said goodbye to Behm. Then he called Sara.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Sara, I’m really sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure.”

“Hey, who isn’t?”

“I’m really sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

There was a pause.

“I guess by not doing it in the first place. Look, can we talk later?” Todd continued.

“I thought you called me.”

“That was then. This is—”

A huge crash of something resounded in Todd’s ear.

“What the hell was that? Are you okay?”

Sara sighed.

“Terry is moving the rest of his stuff out today. That was some of his stuff.”

“I see.”

“I’ll come over later. At this rate Terry’s stuff is going to be shrapnel.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I have floorboards. They’re being dented. Look—”

There was another crash.

“Call me later.”

“You got it.”

*  *  *

Time went by. Todd visited Sara in her now-empty home. Mike came around, not every Saturday night, but oftenish. Behm didn’t call.

Todd still had a knot in his stomach, a knot that remained there until one morning he got a knock on his door and the UPS guy was there, looking stressed.

“That is a huge package,” said Sara. “And for once I don’t mean you, big guy.”

Todd didn’t get it at first and when he did, he was slightly embarrassed (Janis never talked dirty, not to him anyway).

“It’s from New York,” he said, setting the long, heavy box down on the table. Sara found scissors and they began cutting into it.

“Oh my God,” said Sara. She reached into the box, and then stopped.

“Sorry,” she said. “This is your moment.”

Todd pulled back the flaps atop the box and put both his hands in. Then, like a medic assisting at a birth, he pulled out a book.

“All My Colors,” said Sara, almost reverently. “My Lord, Todd, look at it.”

Todd held up the hardback. Its jacket featured the head of a woman in profile and around it, almost like an Afro, a rainbow.

“By Todd Milstead,” he read out loud. He dove back into the box and pulled out another copy, then another, then another. Sara joined in, and within a few moments they had pulled out every single copy of the book.

“Now what do we do?” said Todd. He found he was crying. Sara wiped his eyes.