“Uh-huh.” He laughs, but not in an amused way. Takes the comic book out and unrolls it, then rerolls it: a nervous habit. “Those videos. Good times. Nice enough, I guess. But that’s like whispering in someone’s ear as they’re getting raped: ‘Oh, hey, gosh, don’t worry, it’ll end eventually. Then it’s all ponies and bubble gum. For now, just lie back and think of England.’” He stops walking. Eyes her up. Face sad. “Well. You know what I’m talking about.”

She doesn’t say anything and keeps walking, forcing him to play catch-up.

He continues: “I’m just saying, I could use a little less ‘It gets better’ and a little more ‘Here’s how to make it better now.’ Or even, ‘Here’s how to stop bullying gay people just because they’re gay, you fucking asshole thug prick-slit Nazi motherfucker.’”

“That sounds a little long for a catchphrase,” she says.

“Maybe a bumper sticker?” He laughs.

“I found one!” Shane says from ten feet away. He holds up a small, black, flinty stone, his face a triumphant moon. He holds it close and squints, then sighs. “Never mind.” He pitches the stone away, grumbling.

“How’d you two hook up?” she asks Coyne, gesturing toward Shane.

“We’re not gay lovers, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m done with those. The last one did not end well, let me tell you.”

“I . . .” She frowns, sticks out her lip. “I didn’t mean that, now stop. I’m just saying, you two seem an odd pair of ducks. You’re an agent of fabulosity—”

“While he sits in his basement building a 64-bit Ubuntu box?”

She crooks an eyebrow. “I don’t know what the hell you just said, so I’m going to go ahead and assume that you’re as big a nerd as he is, no matter how fashionable you look.”

“Bingo. We met at the comic store in Bloomsburg.” He shakes his comic book at her as if to demonstrate. She catches a glimpse of the cover: Captain America. Coyne must note her dubious face, because he adds: “What, did you think we all just sit around reading the homo version of Cosmopolitan? ‘Nine Ways to Tickle Your Man’s Taint’? ‘The Cosmo Guide to Being a Power-Bottom’?”

She shrugs it off, but points to the book. “Seriously, though? Captain America? You find him sexy, don’t you?”

“Please. I’ll have you know, he’s too muscular for me. I like thin little fey boys. Delicate as a wilting rose. No, I read Captain America because he punches Nazis and fights evil with a shield and because he used to be a little fey boy like me but now he’s an ass-kicking pro-America patriotism machine.”

“Didn’t figure you for a patriot.”

“Didn’t figure you for al-Qaeda.”

“Cute.”