"That is not what I meant."

"Mind your tone, Arnold."

"Why do you always sound like that when you speak to me?  You talk like you think I am retarded."

"Do not start with me, Arnold.  You will not win."

"Would you guys like some privacy for this?" I said.  "I'd be happy to step outside and—"

"Knock it off!" shouted Rebecca from the bathroom.  "Or else when I come out of here, I will start pinching you where it will hurt, I swear it."

"I am sorry," said Arnold.

False-Face exhaled, his shoulders slumping.  "Me, too."

Thomas started his song over.

"Okay, then," said Rebecca.  "Now would someone turn on a radio or the television or something?  I do not want you listening to me do my business."

Arnold rose from the bed and crossed the room to turn on the television.  He flipped through the channels until he found a music video station, then turned up the volume.  "Better?"

"Thank you," said Rebecca.

Arnold looked at me.  "We all lived in the same room.  There was only one toilet, so we always had to use the bathroom in front of everyone else.  Privacy is still a little new to us."

"Shut up," said False-Face.  "What did we agree on?"

"I have not said anything about anything, man, not really."

"And you will not.  I am still in charge here."

"I heard that."  Arnold sounded, for the first time, like a child; apologetic, embarrassed, worried that he'd just gotten into trouble.  "I did not mean to do anything wrong."

"Just… be careful what you say, all right?"  False-Face looked right at me.  "I am not sure we can trust him yet."

Arnold looked at me, then shrugged.  "He seems cool to me."

"You said that last time, and look what—"  False-Face stopped himself, then shook his head.  "Never mind.  It seems like we are all talking way too much for our own good."

I raised my hand like a kid in class.  "Can I ask something?"

False-Face tilted his head but made no reply.

"Would you please tell me what your name is so I'll know what to call you?"

"Why is that so important to you?"

"It's common courtesy.  Besides, you know a helluva lot more than that about me.  If you want my help, it seems the least you could do is tell me your name.  Call it a gesture of good faith."

He thought about it for a moment, then said:  "Christopher."

"As in the saint and 'Robin'?"

"…Robin?"

"Winnie-the-Pooh Christopher Robin."

He squinted, looked at Arnold, and then said:  "I have… no idea what that is."

My mouth may have actually dropped open.  "You're kidding?"

"Three guesses."

I laughed out of surprise.  "One of the most famous children's books of all time and you have no idea—?"

"What did I just say?  Did I mumble?  Do you have trouble hearing?  I do not know what that is!  I have never heard of it!  I have never read it!  So how could I understand the reference?"  He was getting progressively more agitated.  "Are you trying to make me feel stupid?  Is that it?  Or do you just want to confuse me so that you can pull something while I am busy trying to make sense out what you said?"  He stormed over to the bed and punched me in the nose, then shoved me up against the headboard, cracking the back of my skull against the wall.  "I do not need anyone else to ever make me feel stupid and worthless again!  Do you understand?"  He grabbed my throat with one incredibly strong hand, holding my head in place.  "None of us needs to feel like that, not ever again!  Ever!"  He squeezed harder, pressing me into the wall and headboard as blood from my nose streamed down his hand.  "AM I GETTING THROUGH TO YOU?"

"Stop it," said Arnold, grabbing onto Christopher's arm and throwing all his weight into breaking his grip on me.

"DO NOT MAKE FUN OF ME!"

Arnold pulled again.  "Knock it off, Christopher!  He cannot breathe!"

"DO NOT MAKE FUN OF ANY OF US, PRETTY-BOY!  EVER!"

The room was starting to spin out of focus; my chest felt like it was imploding; the pressure in my skull was almost unbearable.

Something flew across my field of vision and struck Christopher right in the face.  He let go of me and stumbled backward, knocking Arnold aside, his arms pinwheeling for balance as he fell over the footstool in front of the chair by the lamp; he hit the floor with a heavy thud as part of his face fell off—the prosthesis of the upper lip—and then Arnold was on top of him, kneeling on Christopher's chest and holding down his arms.

"You stop it," said Arnold.  "You get hold of yourself right now.  You hear me?"

"Get off my chest!"

"Not until you calm down."  He reached out and grabbed the boot that had struck Christopher's face.  "You settle, you do it right now, or I will conk you a good one with this, I swear to God!"

I bent forward, coughing and rubbing my neck, pulling in as many deep breaths as I could without hyperventilating or gagging on the backwash of blood from my nose.  I blinked and wiped my eyes before falling back against the pillows; as I lay there waiting for my heart to stop trying to squirt through my ribs, I turned my head to the side and saw Thomas in his wheelchair, holding the first boot's mate, which he looked ready to heave at a moment's notice.  I smiled at him, mouthing "Thanks."

He nodded his head, then said:  "It is not like I really need them anymore."

The bathroom door flew open and a very irritated Rebecca came out.  "All right!  That is enough!"  She pulled something from the back pocket of her jeans that made a quick, loud sizzling sound and spit out a concentrated flash of bright-blue electricity.

She lifted the Taser and bolted over to the guys on the floor.  "Stop it right now, Christopher"—she made the Taser snap and sizzle—"or I will use this on you."

Still, he struggled against Arnold.

"If you think I am kidding," said Rebecca, "then keep it up.  You have three seconds to start behaving.  One…two…"

The struggling stopped almost immediately.

Rebecca nodded her head, smiling.  "That is much better.  Thank you."

Arnold rose, the boot still in his hand, and sat on the edge of my bed.  "Are you all right, Mark?"

I wiped blood from my nose and face.  "I think so."

Arnold dug into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of tissues, which he handed to me.  I thanked him and pressed the tissues up into my nostrils.

On the floor, Christopher glared at the ceiling; then, wordlessly, sat up and tore away his hair piece and the rest of his makeup like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum.  It couldn't have taken thirty seconds for him to rip it all away.

The sight of his real face hit me the hardest of them all.

One of his jaws was completely metal.  His nose had been severed just like Rebecca's, only Grendel hadn't stopped there; Christopher's disfigurement extended to the removal of his upper lip and a half-inch of tissue on either side:  the center of his face was one large vertical gash, exposing clogged sinus cavities, swollen gums, crooked, discolored teeth, and the shredded remnants of what were once temporalis muscles around the corners of his mouth, leaving him with a permanent rictus grin.  His left ear had been torn off.  Half of his scalp had been peeled back like an orange, and what little hair remained up there looked like cobwebs covering a piece of spoiled meat.  Across the middle of his head, like some toothless maw, was an open wound beneath which a smooth yellowing skull gleamed.