“Because we love you—”

“Right,” he said. “Right. Love. Intervention style. That’s what this is, isn’t it? You think you found something that’s not mine, and now you’re staging an intervention. Jesus. Do you know how ridiculous this is? How stupid it is? There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine. You guys are really reaching here. Okay? It’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” Otter asked. “Explain it to us. And remember what I said about one more chance. Because I was serious about that.”

He opened his mouth once. Then closed it. Opened. Closed. He made a noise in the back of his throat and glanced toward the front door, like he was gauging the distance to see if he could make a break for it.

In the end, he didn’t.

In the end, he didn’t do anything at all.

He just… sat there, arms across his chest, refusing to look at either of us. And it was easy to see it then. The bags under his eyes. His sallow skin. He was skinnier than he’d been before. He was wearing layers, but I could still see it. And it struck me just how much angrier I was at myself rather than him. I should have seen it. I should have seen all of it. It never should have gotten this far. There had been a point in our lives when it wouldn’t have, because every single thing he did, I watched over, not wanting to let him out of my sight for fear that he’d just be… gone, like everyone else in our life had been.

And it was hard to understand that, to reconcile this person in front of me with the Kid I’d known. We’d been scarily dependent on each other, not knowing how else to be. And maybe it hadn’t been the healthiest thing, but goddammit, it’d worked for us. At least for a while. I’d protected him from as much as I could, and in return, he’d done the same for me. Maybe I shouldn’t have leaned on him as much as I had, and maybe I should have forced him out more on his own rather than tightening the leash, but we’d survived, hadn’t we? We’d gotten this far.

Granted, right now wasn’t exactly the end result I’d hoped for.

I had to remind myself of that. That this person wasn’t the Kid I’d known. Zombie Tyson wasn’t real. He wasn’t the Kid that wrote bad poems about Santa who was really Satan. He wasn’t the Kid who used to crawl up my legs until I held him in my arms, his hands in my hair as he babbled in my ear. This wasn’t the Kid who had grinned at me through a mouthful of soy ice cream, who laughed with his whole body, head rocked back, hands clutching his stomach. Who once asked Otter and me what the back room at a gay bar was for. Who announced to his graduating class that he was gay and proud of it, implying that he would never take shit from anyone. Who had once called me on the phone, words choked and wet, saying—