I bend down so I’m level with the wheelchair they’re insisting he use.

You scared us, I say.

James puts a long shaky hand to his chest. I can’t feel it, he says. His voice is equally shaky and not quite James.

Feel what?

My heart beating.

I know this is the drugs too, but my eyes sting with sudden tears and my own heart seizes in my rib cage.

I grab his hand and pull it away from his chest. His skin is cold, and his bare fingers twist with mine.

Do what the doctors tell you, I say stupidly. Call me as soon as you can.

Then he’s wheeled away to the waiting car, and I’m left with all of the important things I should have said.

All the things I should have asked.

All the things.

Becky gets more details from Andy, who gets the info from his cop dad, who got it from some guy at the precinct who owed him a favor.

And thing is, it was random. Just a bunch of assholes looking for trouble and finding my best friend instead.

I close my eyes and see it. The show is over. James is outside, still in his stage makeup, or maybe dressed to go out. Smoking a long, thin cigarette in his long, thin hand when a guy comes up to him. Then more than one. Maybe they had a tire iron or a baseball bat or maybe just fists.

It could have been anyone. Someone. No one. But they were there. And James, who never has issues with anyone because he isn’t a fighter. He can’t talk his way out of this one.

Charm can’t cut through hate. Anger. Fear.

I wince with each hit I imagine. Eyes. Nose. Mouth.

James.

Broken.

Becky is at Andy’s and then heading to work. Connor is at Maurice’s. It doesn’t matter where my parents are, because what type of comfort have they given me in the last two years?

I caress my guitar. I write James a song. No, a melody. I can’t sort through my brain to find words.

I clean my room, alphabetizing my albums and packing away old comics I haven’t read in years.

I migrate to the kitchen, pick up the phone to call Gabriel, and then put it back down.

Pick it up again. Punch in numbers. The Dial-a-Daze line gives me a busy signal over and over.

I spend hours staring out of my window at the traffic, wondering what happens next.

Becky calls from the ice cream store.

My boss is off tonight, come down and keep me company, she says.

I don’t know, Becks…

Michael, did that sound like a question? I’m freezing my ass off in here, and I just served fudge ripple to an entire little league team.

Fine, I say, fine.

I bring her my Clash sweatshirt to put on under her apron, and I can’t stop thinking that it was the same one James wore at my house. She pushes me onto a stool and instructs me to sit and watch while she scoops some daiquiri ice into the blender, followed by something clear she dumps in from a brown paper bag.