She went into the jerk-off room. Todd was standing by his bookcase. The house was full of bookcases, but this was Todd’s special bookcase, where he kept the Good Stuff. Todd even called it the Good Stuff, like it was fine liquor and all Janis’s dumb paperbacks (he never used the word in front of Janis, but then he didn’t have to: she knew) were rotgut. Rotbrain, she found herself thinking as she stood in Todd’s study, watching Todd attack his own bookcase. Now she could see the cause of the noise that had woken her: Todd was pulling books out and throwing them at the desk—thud! thud!—like a maniac.

“What are you doing?” she said.

Todd whirled around. “You startled me,” he said accusingly.

“You woke me,” she countered. “Todd, it’s two in the morning.”

“Now we’re a clock,” said Todd, which Janis thought made little sense. “I know what time it is, Janis.”

“Go back to bed,” she said. “You’ve got—”

Janis couldn’t for the life of her think what it was that Todd had to do the next morning. Pull his pud until lunch, no doubt.

“Stuff,” she said. “Todd, it’s too late for this.” “What do you mean, it’s too late?” he slurred, and Janis realized that Todd had started drinking again after she’d gone to bed. She was very tired. Bone tired and brain tired.

“Todd, I asked you once already,” she said. “What are you doing?”

Todd thudded a few more books at the desk. Janis saw a second edition Bellow crease and fall to the carpet.

“I’m looking for that fucking book,” he said.

“What—” said Janis. Then she realized. “That book.”

“Yeah, that book,” said Todd. “I figured it out. You jerks.”

He sniffed. Oh great, Janis thought, he found some coke. Cocaine was hard to find in their small town, but Todd could be quite determined when it came to himself and his needs, as he was now proving.

“What do you mean, you figured it out?” Janis sat down. She would rather have lain down, but the floor was stiff with literature.

“You all got together,” said Todd. “One of you had an idea, to torment old Todd. Pretend you never heard of All My Colors or Jake Turner. So, you got Billy to tell that story—although knowing Billy, the poor ass probably thinks it really did happen—for bait, and then you all pretended you didn’t know the book. Messing with my mind.”

“I have never heard of that book,” said Janis. “Honestly, Todd. Now please stop and go to bed. You’re—you’re tipsy, and somehow you think this thing is real. It’s not real, Todd.” Like talking to a child who was having a tantrum, she thought.

“If it’s not real,” said Todd, staggering past a Herman Melville, “then how come I remember it?”