Mercy finally said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you sooner, Art. I truly am. And I only want you to get better. That’s why I’m here. Let me help you. Will you open the door?” She pushed against the door. The latch held.

“Please don’t come in.” It hurt to say that. I didn’t understand it then, nor do I understand it at the writing of this book. There was always so much hurt.

“Yeah, okay. But before I go, you know you’ll get better, right? Healthier, stronger if you let yourself?”

I nodded (unclear if she could see or sense my nodding), afraid I might say something traitorous.

“Will you tell me one thing, Art? I need to know you’ll be different now. The same you, always, please always you, but also—different. Better or worse, who the fuck knows what that means according to whatever bullshit value system that might be applied other than your own. I’m not doing a good job, here. Fuck it. Look. You need to tell me you won’t continue to hide yourself, that you’ll try to be who you imagine yourself as being. I want to know if you’ll take actual fucking risks to be that person and still like that person when you fail and when you succeed. I want you to tell me you’re not going to be the same scared, woe-is-me kid who hides in his head. Please tell me you won’t float along with everyone else through the drunk and stupid numbing bliss of college and then zombie into a middle- or upper-class job you won’t care about because you need to pay student loans and then pay all the other loans to come. After all we’ve done, tell me you won’t pretend you’re happy and you won’t pretend you can’t do what you want to do even if you aren’t entirely sure what that is. Can you tell me that?”

I didn’t answer. How could I make any empty promises about the opaque future? How could anyone?

“All right. I’ll leave you alone now, Art.”

I unlatched and opened the basement door.

Mercy had lied about flipping on the light switch because there was only darkness. I glimpsed movement, maybe a showing of eyes and teeth, two sets of each, but I cannot be certain that my imagination wasn’t filling in details to simplify the vastness. There was no hiding from this, no closing the door that was opened. Then there was a flash of light and a high-pitched squeal. The door slammed shut, and I honestly cannot remember if I shut it.

I am a lot of things, but a liar is not one.