I remembered how to do it, didn’t I? Fire. Flux. Lemons and sugar. I recalled with clarity the singsong of those foreign words; the incantation had meandered in and out of my dreams for years. But there were other substances that went into the vessels whose names I’d never learned. When I’d asked, Anjali Auntie had brushed me off—It’s untranslatable, she’d say.

The truth: I didn’t know how to make the damned thing on my own. I was useless without the Dayals. They had made me. I couldn’t remake myself. I was going to be sick. I slept.

THE POUNDING ON THE DOOR—it could only be the cops. I smelled something on the floral duvet, dribbles of my own vomit. I rubbed the duvet into itself to spread the vomit, as though that would limit the stench. My eyes filled. I tasted sweat and metal as tears and snot slicked down my cheeks. I wiped and wiped on my T-shirt, staining it like a little boy. I had only wanted to see that it everyone kept talking about. That thing they all knew. That conviction about love, about the absolution love brings. I saw myself in the mirror, the T-shirt discolored with bodily gunk, cheeks beginning to darken with stubble. Redness veined my eyes.

When the cops cuffed me, what motives could I offer? That I’d only wanted to give the girl I loved a bit of jewelry? I pictured it like that—me, declaring I loved her, articulating the thing I’d not spoken aloud, saying it for the first time in salacious newsprint.

The pounding again. “Sir, sir, sir.” I wondered if an officer of the law would be so respectful. “Housekeeping, sir.”

I gagged and this time made it to the bathroom.

“Not right now!” I shouted after I’d rinsed my mouth.

I plugged my phone in to tap around on the Wi-Fi. What would I search: sanskrit gold smelting rituals? Shooting santa clara bridal expo? As soon as the white light flickered back on, glowing lustrous, the thing freaked, buzzing and buzzing, text after text, voice mail after voice mail, from my parents and Prachi. My eyes stabilized on the last message shuddering on the screen as the phone finally lay limp on the nightstand.

From Anita: Neil. I know you’re okay. I *know* you’re not doing something stupid. We just need to hear from you. I trust you. I love you.

“Marysville?” she said when I called. “Where the fuck is that?”

“I just got on the highway and started heading toward Berkeley and then realized I couldn’t stop there if anyone was, I don’t know, after me? So I kept driving and when I saw Marysville, I thought, oh, yeah—”

“Your mind is a messy place, isn’t it?”