“Not really fucked up. Just, you know, a little. Like it feels sort of burnt. Probably just a canker.”

“You do any diving?” DeCenz asked.

“On who?”

“The pig.”

“No fucking way!”

“How does your pecker feel?” I asked.

“Actually, it feels a little funny when I piss.”

“What do you mean ‘funny’?”

“Well, you know, sort of like I’m pissing razor blades. Look, I ain’t going to no doctor until I absolutely gotta. Last time I got my worm checked the Doc stuck a Q-Tip up there like he was loading a fucking cannon. Felt like I got electrocuted.”

For the next few hours, the Wire and DeCenz filled me in on what had been happening on Suicide. Mousy just stared out at the Hilltop parking lot and smoked butts. The few times he did speak it was in a strained and somehow embarrassing voice. Everyone felt uneasy. At the end of the night a sullen, almost robotic Mousy dropped DeCenz and me off at a Del’s Lemonade stand a few blocks from my street. We walked the rest of the way sipping frozen lemonade which we’d mixed with vodka.

“What’s with Mousy these days?” I asked. “He’s acting like he’s on drugs or something.”

“Yeah, he’s on drugs all right. He’s doing greens.”

“Greens?”

“He’s been on a big money kick. Talking about moving down to Jersey and working for some nuclear power plant.”

“Come on?!”

“I’m serious.”

“What about ’Zona?”

DeCenz clicked his tongue. “Christ, Arizona’s been out of the picture since June. Ain’t enough money in ’Zona. He’s thinking of either Connecticut or Jersey.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“I’ll wipe both your asses for a week if I’m wrong.”

We finished the spiked slush on my front steps. After a while DeCenz stopped being a hard-ass. He was just concerned for Mousy, not pissed off at him. “Don’t know what’s gotten into him, Dunph, but all of a sudden the kid’s talking about selling out. You know, a house in the city, two point three kids, a nine-to-five job, your basic Mr. Nobody trip.”

“Nuclear power plants?” I said. “New Jersey?! If only he could hear himself, he’d shit his pants.”

“Yeah, and if your aunt had balls, she’d be your uncle. I’m telling you, he’s been listening to his money-hungry uncles, and he’s fucking brainwashed. It’s hopeless, man.” DeCenz hesitated and then said, “Somebody should pull the plug on the guy.”

The day I thumbed back to Cornwall was beautiful and depressing. Overnight it had become sweater-and-football weather. The sky was bluer and the world clearer. It looked September.

The next morning my advisor, Mr. Cole, entered my room, steady as a house of cards. When the weakling failed to hint what was troubling him, I asked, “Wasn’t I invited back this year?”