Matt clambered up to the fourth floor. On the narrow metal ledge at the top he peered into the window. And there was Ganesh. Passed out, enough weed paraphernalia on the coffee table to stock a head shop. The window was open a crack, and noise from the blaring television seeped outside. Matt tapped on the glass.

When Ganesh didn’t stir, Matt wedged his fingers under the window frame and lifted. The window was warped from rot and age, and it jammed halfway up. He crawled through the hole.

“Ganesh,” Matt said, but his friend didn’t move. He was out cold, mouth wide open, still wearing his plastic-framed glasses, a bag of potato chips on his lap.

“Ganesh,” he said again, louder, over the din of Fox News blasting from the television mounted on the wall.

Ganesh shot up, startled. He looked around, then seemed to relax when he registered that it was Matt.

“Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” Ganesh said. He spoke with a slight Indian accent, barely detectable, and sounded more British than Indian.

“Sorry, you weren’t answering the door, so I—” Matt pointed his chin at the window. They’d made the same climb once before when Ganesh had forgotten his keys. Matt was sober this time, at least.

“No worries.” Ganesh’s curly hair was a mess. He dusted potato chip crumbs from his shirt, then gave Matt a long sad look. “I heard … Did you get my texts? I don’t know what to say.”

Matt nodded. Nothing Ganesh would say—nothing anyone could say—would make one bit of difference.

Ganesh leaned forward and lifted a tall cylindrical bong from the coffee table. Lighter in one hand, bong in the other, he gestured to Matt, offering the first hit.

Matt held up a hand to decline. He was never one for weed. And he always found it strange how Ganesh, a law-and-order Republican, used the drug as a crutch. But he supposed that was the enigma of his roommate from freshman year. Ganesh was finishing his four-year degree in three, and had already been accepted to med school to specialize in neuroscience. Fitting—Ganesh’s own brain could provide years of study. He was a conservative who chose to attend liberal NYU. He was an immigrant who loved to chant “Build the wall.” He was sophisticated, yet highly susceptible to cable news conspiracy theories. He grew up in a ten-million-dollar penthouse in Mumbai, yet chose to live in a shithole apartment on the outskirts of the East Village.

Ganesh blew out a lungful of smoke and aimed the remote at the television. “That douche RA was on TV talking about you. So was your girl.”

“Ex-girl,” Matt corrected.

“I DVR’d it,” Ganesh said. He scrolled through the recordings displayed on the screen, and clicked on one for the local news. Up popped Phillip’s preppy face.

“We’re all heartbroken,” Phillip said.