I know I’m not in my son’s actual head, the space is too large. In fact, it’s too large to be whose head I thought it was, unless they expanded it somehow, which is a possibility I suppose. That, or it’s a sculpture. Same, I hope, as Kevin’s head mounted across from me, but I have no way of knowing. I smell blood. I smell the talcum scent of bone.

“Loud noises are ice picks to his ears. Silence is empty confusion.”

We can’t take Rox to the grocery store for that very reason. You can see it in his eyes; it’s Armageddon. Can’t watch a movie because he loses track of the storyline and begins to cry. I took him fishing once and he started screaming when I hooked the worm. You’d have thought I’d murdered Mother Teresa when I caught a brim.

To think of all the nights we leave him in his room alone while watching reality shows. Left in isolation while I eat ice cream as a reward for another night of not getting trashed.

My skin is contracting from the heat. So this is how I’m going to die, baked alive in the skull of my friend while having the specifics of my son’s handicap shoved in my face like truth manure? And it dawns on me why decapitated heads have played such a prominent role in the theatrics so far. Great, I get it.

“Hormone function is disrupted, dopamine and serotonin receptors go dormant.”

But he responds to hugs, from Cassie at least. Probably because she gives them wholeheartedly. Mine are always timid, like I’m going to break the little guy. Like too hard a squeeze will give him a concussion. I realize I don’t know how to love my own son. I treat him more like a hospice patient than a growing boy intent on living a full life. All I’ve ever known about being a father I learned from movies, and I like to watch horror flicks.

The static distortion intensifies; the searing heat scalds the underside of my chin and I can smell hair burning. Panic fills my chest and I’m ready to either break free or die.

“Hey!” I scream, trying to wake the pale mutant in front of me. “Fucking wake up! Please, I need help!”

“Patterns are elusive. Faces, too. Sometimes he lives with strangers.”

I’ve seen him look at me with fear in his eyes. “Please!” I scream. Attempts to pull my head free just cut off my air. “Help!”