It gets quieter as time goes on, and then we are the only ones here. We stand in silence in front of James Franco. We both notice the same thing. He looks like Reg: he looks eager and full of shit, like an opportunist and a homewrecker and a homemaker. Like he has bad ideas and bad breath and terrible impulses. He looks like he slept in those clothes but loves how it looks.

Dee puts her hand in her pocket, and I look over my shoulder. She has a lighter in her palm and holds it up.

“It’s your turn, Stevie.”

“My turn for what?”

“Do it,” she whispers. “Now.”

I stand up on the platform and reach up, the lighter under his nose, the flame tickling him like a feather. And it takes forever, but then suddenly his face is distorted, caving in, and it feels great. We watch him. He has no nose; his moustache is covered in beige wax, like he just drank the head off a pint of acid. He looks defeated. He’s everyone: a stand-in for all the hurt. It feels so good, and I want more.

“Much better,” Dee says, and I nod, feeling strong.

We immediately get the hell out of there, hitting the sidewalk at a run once we’re out of the museum, laughing and gasping for air when at a safe distance. We lean against a building painted a bright yellow. I stand back to look at it: an old wall mural ad for the Marlboro Man, standing in a field of wheat.

“Look at that cool bastard,” Dee says, and I nod. He’s twenty feet of I-don’t-give-a-shit.

“Unflappable.”

“He doesn’t care about anything.”

“Nope.”

We start walking down toward the falls, and a fine mist fills the air the closer we get. We reach the fence and put our hands on it, looking down at the wonder itself.

“Wow,” Dee says. “Pretty amazing.”

I shrug. “If you like that kind of thing. It’s a little over the top for me.”

She laughs, and then we are quiet as we watch for a while.

Dee turns and looks at me, considering something.

“What?”

“I’m just thinking …”

“About what? Spit it out.”

“Well, okay. I’m thinking about Lottie.”

“What about her?” I ask, closing my eyes against the spray.

“Don’t you think maybe she needs a wake-up call, too?”

I look at Dee, suddenly feeling protective, defensive. “What? Why?”

Dee scoffs. “Seriously, Stevie? Why? Did you forget that she’s the reason this all happened in the first place? I mean, at the very least she was a silent party to what they did to you. She never stood up for you.”