“Let me give some encouragement,” Mitchell began. “First, let’s make an inventory. I do little self-assessments when I’m feeling low. It helps. You have a stable job that doesn’t require the use of your full intelligence. You have your own apartment in one of the most expensive cities. Granted, it’s a dank rat hole, but it’s yours. You’re devilishly clever. You’re friends with me. You are still young. Or at least you’re youngish.”

Mitchell sounded like he had prepared this speech long ago.

“Be nice.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing! Point being, you’re not getting your PhD. So what? I think it’s a sign from the great cosmic camelid. You’re alive and healthy, and there’s more to life than the graduate center.”

Guilt shivered through Alfonzo. He was ignoring the positive, he admonished himself. Animals everywhere were dying. They were dying of starvation and poisoning and fighting while he was here, moping about his inability to produce a stellar academic product. He’d inflicted this on himself to avoid the challenges of the real world. Yet that burden was all he had.

“But without a career, what am I? I’m not anybody’s mate or parent. I am not even a particularly good son. I’m not politically active. I don’t volunteer. I haven’t been to a dentist in years. My only hobby is listening to music. You know how it is in this city. It’s not enough to just exist. Without a purpose in life, you’re just a body taking up space. I feel myself dissolving into my surroundings.” He looked at Mitchell and almost hated him for his resilience. He was being such a good friend and Alfonzo was acting like a baby. He could add bad friend to his list of descriptors. “And here you’ve been this whole time doing your job with such conviction. New Yorkers actually need you. But me,” Alfonzo scoffed, “I’ve been going through the motions. I’m a waste of wool.”

“Oh, please.”

“I had this vision of myself transcending, like, I don’t know, my Queens roots? My dad’s obsessions? This dumb cartoon version of who we are as a species?”