We sort of watched horror-movie DVDs. To keep from nodding off I tried to get Mercy to give me her story, to share what she’d been up to. She deflected with “Nothing as exciting as being a rock star.”

Right. You gotta keep me mysterious.

I held up devil-horns hands that had the shakes. Then I asked a long and thoughtful question about her photography, about her pursuing her passion. I got a one-word answer.

“Hobby,” she said.

“How about the camera you used last night. Is it the same Polaroid?”

“Same? Do you mean make, model, type—”

“I mean are you using the same camera you used when I met you?”

“Yes to both. I’ve kept that camera in working condition. The thing is a pain in the ass to find film cartridges for and they’re expensive as fuck, so I only shoot with it on special occasions. Like last night. If you want the photo, by the way, the price remains five bucks. Nonnegotiable.”

“Did you take any action shots of the show?”

“Nope. Five bucks.”

Because I couldn’t move my slept-on-it-wrong neck, I pivot-turned my entire calcified body so I could look directly at Mercy.

She said, “You move like a rusted weathervane.”

“The wind is blowing north.”

“You stubborn jerk, you should’ve taken the bed and let me sleep on the couch like I offered.”

“Probably. Okay, where’s the photo?”

“Five bucks first.”

“Don’t know if I want a picture of myself that badly.”

“You’ll want this one.”

“Why? You got my good side? I don’t have one of those.”

“You’ll see.”

“Is there … ahem … proof in my photo? Were you looking for proof? Ghostly”—at this I waggled my fingers, which, somehow, were sore too; maybe I’d slept on them wrong as well—“green-blobbed proof?” I laughed as though I truly believed I’d said something ridiculous.

BLUE-BLOBBED, YOU MONSTER!

“I’m always looking for proof, Art,” she said. “And I’m looking for five bucks.”

I fished out a crumpled twenty from my jeans, the only bill I had, and tossed it to her. “Keep the change for the pizza and whiskey,” I said.

Mercy pommel-horsed off the couch but stumbled in her landing. Maybe she was as buzzed as I was. She walked to the coat rack by the front door. This I inferred by sound, as I couldn’t swivel my head to watch her. She returned with her canvas bag, which she placed on the coffee table after clearing glasses and a bottle of brown liquid for a landing spot. She made change for my twenty and when I refused to accept it, she threw the money onto my lap. Next, she pulled out the photo, held it up, pinched between forefinger and thumb.

She said, “Part of the transaction requires that you cannot look at it until tomorrow morning. Deal?”

“Do you always have to fuck with me?”

“Yes. It’s fun. And the rules are the rules.” She extended the photo toward me, but I didn’t reach for it. “Don’t be a cranky weathervane.”