Soon enough, the two dudes manage to pull free from my wind-milling madness and bolt down the darkened street in Carlos’s long-gone wake. That just leaves me, lunging at shadows and roaring obscene death threats until finally I realize my skull is screaming in agony and I smell something terrible.

Next thing I know, I’ve dropped the shattered whiskey bottle and I’m hopping up and down in the middle of the street, trying to suffocate the embers smoldering in my melted hair.

“Shit. Oh shit, shit, shit.” My turn to be the doofus. I pat frantically at my head until it feels like the worst of the heat has subsided. Then, breathing ragged, as moment passes into moment, I realize the full extent of my crime spree. I’m drunk. I’ve singed off most of my hair. My arms are riddled with black soot and fresh burn blisters. My whole body hurts like hell.

The black heap on the sidewalk is finally groaning his way back to life.

I cross to the man, roll him over onto his back.

And meet my neighbor, Jason Jones.

“What the fuck are you doing out this time of night?” I demand to know ten minutes later. I’ve managed to drag Jones inside my apartment, where I got him propped up on Mrs. H.’s floral love seat with one ice pack on his head and another against his left ribs.

Guy’s left eye is already half-swollen and there’s a bandage that suggests tonight hasn’t been his first beating of the day.

“Are you a fucking idiot?” I want to know. I’m coming down off my adrenaline high. I pace back and forth in front of the tiny kitchenette, snapping at the green elastic and wishing I could crawl out of my own skin.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Jones croaks out.

“Forget my fucking hair. What the hell are you doing skulking around the neighborhood dressed like a suburban ninja? Isn’t the freak show at your house enough for you?”

“You mean the media?”

“Cannibals.”

“Given that I’m one of them, and they’re clearly feeding off me, an apt analogy.”

I scowl harder. In my current mood, I don’t give a rat’s ass for apt analogies. “What the hell are you doing?” I try again.

“Looking for you.”

“Why?”

“You said you saw something the night my wife disappeared. I want to know what you saw.”

“Like you couldn’t just pick up a damn phone and give me a call?”

“Like I couldn’t read your face to see if you were lying while you answered.”

“Please, you can stare me in the eye all you want; you still won’t know if I’m lying.”