North wanted to groan.

Shaw tried to focus. In his mind, though, he kept returning to the envelope that had arrived in the mail that day, now hidden in his bedroom under a pile of leopard-print jockstraps. He could see the letters stamped in the return address: Potosi Correctional Center. His thoughts were tethered to that envelope, to the man who had sent the letter, the same man who had cornered Shaw in a dark alley and sliced open his leg, almost taken off his balls: the West End Slasher. And the letter was just sitting there upstairs, unopened, about to drive Shaw out of his head.

He forced his mind back to the present, running his hands along the edge of the desk, his eyes not quite meeting Pari’s. “Right, Pari, but see, the thing is, we don’t normally do installment plans. In fact, I kind of remember having a version of this conversation with you yesterday, and I told you that we didn’t do installment plans—”

With a rustle of paper, Pari drew out a crumpled wad and threw it on the desk. She straightened, flinging her hair back, getting in classic Pari pose for a fight.

This time, North did groan.

“I already printed up the repayment schedule, but since this is such a stupid idea—”

“I didn’t say stupid,” Shaw whispered.

“—why don’t you just throw it away? Oh. And here. Here’s a poem I wrote for Chuck and Nels on our three-month anniversary.” Another wadded ball of paper smacked onto Shaw’s desk. “Why don’t you throw that away too?”

“This is an Arby’s receipt,” Shaw said, but he shrank back into his seat when Pari glared at him.

North rubbed his eyes; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could watch this.

“And why don’t you throw away these earrings?” The two simple silver studs clanged down between Shaw’s hands. “Those were a thank you gift from you and North after I finished a year here. Throw those away too.”

“Don’t say it,” North muttered.

As usual, Shaw didn’t listen. “I don’t remember getting you—”

“Of course you don’t!” Pari screamed. “Because I had to buy them myself. You probably didn’t even know I’d been working here a year.”

“Only a year?” North said. “It feels so much longer.”

Neither Shaw nor Pari seemed to hear him. Pari rose to her feet, leveling an accusatory finger—and a nail painted the same burnt umber as the bindi—at Shaw. “But even if none of the rest of it matters to you, even if you don’t care about me at all, even if I’m nothing but another faceless, soulless brown-skinned woman for you to use up and throw away, just another sexual object in a man’s world—”

“I’m gay,” Shaw said. “We’re gay.”

“Don’t say it,” North muttered.

“You’re not a sexual object, you’re—”

“Excuse me?” Pari screeched. She waved a hand at her slender frame, at the simple linen smock dress, at her bare legs. “I’m not a sexual object?”