He peeled off his clothes and got straight into bed. He was sober but the room spun when he shut his eyes. Trevor imagined the bat and phone traveling beneath the city, twirling inside enormous municipal pipes. Would the water destroy the phone? Should he have smashed it first? Would the bat get stuck somewhere? Would it cause a clog that backed up and up until the pressure exploded and blew open a manhole cover, or part of a sidewalk? Or would it run all the way out to the ocean? Would it float past the Statue of Liberty, like he and Claudia had? Would it wash up at Coney Island? He heard voices outside his bedroom door. What would he do if he had to talk to Boyd or one of his other roommates? Would he even be able to move his mouth? He pulled out the phone Claudia bought for him and texted Boyd: i’ve got a cold. in for the night.

A few seconds later Boyd texted back with two emojis: a thumbs-up and a mask.

When he woke up the next morning, there was an NYU Safety Alert in his email. But this time, it wasn’t about the Subway Slasher:

POLICE INVESTIGATION IN WASHINGTON MEWS

Last night the NYU Department of Safety received a report that an NYU student was found unconscious outside the French Institute at approximately 9pm. Paramedics took the student to Bellevue, where he was admitted and is in critical condition with what the hospital described as “head injuries.”

A report was made to the NYPD.

The NYPD. His eyes went blurry, and black spots of fear erupted inside of him, bubbling poison in a cauldron. He stood up and realized he could feel last night in his muscles. He could feel the shape of the bat in his hands. His neck hurt. His stomach. How could he have been so stupid?

Boyd was lying on the sofa when Trevor came out of his bedroom.

“You didn’t have to sleep out here,” said Trevor.

“Stay away,” said Boyd. “I’ve got dress rehearsals next week and I cannot get sick.”

“Got it,” said Trevor. He went into the bathroom and shut the door. He peed and washed his hands and kept his eyes out of the mirror.

“Sorry, was that rude?” said Boyd when he came out. “Obviously it was rude. Can I get you something? Tea? Sudafed?”

“I’m good,” said Trevor.

“Well, you look like shit.”

Before he could say thank you, someone knocked at the door. Trevor opened it and found a man his father’s age, sweating and red-faced.

“Is Sumit here?”

Sumit was one of their suitemates. He was from Queens and spent a lot of weekends at home.

“I don’t think so,” said Trevor. He turned to Boyd.

“Is everything okay?” asked Boyd.