As long as he opened the window, turned on a fan, used Bluetooth headphones to mute the constant bombing of Viking spaceships, and wiped up his late-night microwave explosions, I didn’t much care what he did. The fact that we had opposite schedules cut down on the awkward encounters when he walked around in his underwear yelling at his dad or trying to press his bean-sauce-and-cheese-splattered Styrofoam box on top of the trash instead of taking it out, and I had to pretend that I didn’t see his medium-sized dick through the opening of his penguin-printed boxers.

The S-H had assailed me with his immaturity for so long (the molding potato-pipes left in the sink, the waking me up at three in the morning to tell me about the colors of his existential dread, the immersing into VR soccer games until he became a dehydrated puddle on the floor and his father called me looking for him) that it was hard to conceive of him as useful.

Even so, I found myself walking back through the Witch’s bedroom. I passed her immobile on the floor, crossed the kitchen, and tapped on his door. No answer. Knocked harder.

“Hey, man,” I said casually, giving no immediate signal that I was stepping out of my role as compliant trans roommate who transferred the S-H’s untouched delivery food in the sink to the trash can after three days and had a supply of That’s okays to all his friends who, before I had robust facial hair, used to stumble, “She . . . he . . . I mean, shit, sorry, I mean, he, does he want a hit?” The S-H would go, “Sorry, dude, do you want some?” and I’d say, “That’s okay, I have stuff to do.”

I cracked open the door and inhaled a smell-lasagna of takeout containers, weed, Febreze over the weed and takeout containers, and some brand of manly cinnamon aftershave. The S-H swiveled around in his desk chair to look at me. He was shirtless in his Grinch boxers, showing his pale little-boy chest, which never fattened no matter what he fed it.

“Can you geo-tag someone for me?”

It was less a question of knowledge (I knew he siphoned imperceptible amounts of money from the many bank accounts of his father’s clients) than a question of his willingness to help. I hadn’t sent him exasperated texts about the marshes of hair-in-toothpaste left in the sink in a while; I figured our relationship was in a good place.

“I don’t know, bruh.”

“What if I drop off and pick up your dry cleaning?” I asked.

The pile was probably composting in his closet. The S-H’s father bought him clothes for the job he wanted him to have, a junior investment analyst, and the S-H wore each button-down shirt once, over his underwear, and then threw it into a pile and closed the door.