Michael Florida slid an envelope between the bucket seats. Everything with Purdy had been these envelopes, these seats. It could really put you off envelopes.

"That, along with the other cash I've given you, it should hold you for a while, no?"

"Sure," I said.

"Sure, he says."

"This should be sufficient," I said, everything still blurred from the blow. I felt the tender bloom of the wound under my hand.

"Sufficient," said Purdy. "You're a fucking loser, Milo, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that you didn't win. Do you understand that?"

"Maybe," I said.

"All I ever did was give love, Milo. To everybody, I gave love. Even my old man, and that bastard…"

Purdy pinched his eyes shut, punched the glove box, lightly.

"I didn't wreck her car," he said. "I didn't put her in a coma. The doctors recommended she be moved. The state place was better suited. That was their phrase, better suited. It was their suggestion. I was still going to pay. I loved her. I still love her. I can't help it. And I am really tired of trying to help it when I truly cannot help it. You can all go to hell. None of you feel. You are feeling's assassins. Get out of my car."

The door locks clicked again.

"Wait," said Purdy. "Give it to him."

Michael Florida swiveled back. There was another glint in his hand.

"Jane heard you at the party," said Purdy.

"Pardon?"

Something dropped in my lap.

"And one more thing," said Purdy. "I never texted any drink order. That mojito? It was a mistake. They just made a mistake."

"What?" I said.

"Exit the fucking vehicle."

I got out of the car, watched it tear down Eisenhower, turn onto the county road.

I held my father's knife up to the moonless sky.

Don called late in September. I was living in the kiddie-diddler's basement, his boiler room. It was the only place near Bernie I could afford. Maura and I still spoke, but we'd stopped going to the marriage counselor. Maura quit when the counselor suggested she take a break from having sex with Paul. There was talk of finding another counselor, one more amenable to Maura having sex with Paul, of inviting Paul to a session, even, but nothing happened. We were still, I believed, the loves of each other's life. But that life was maybe over now.

The kiddie-diddler was a kind and extremely unstable man named Harold. He had, as I suspected, once been in radio, voiced some very famous advertising campaigns. I no longer wondered why whenever he spoke I thought of a certain laundry detergent or strawberry-flavored milk.

Harold's brother Tommy slipped me extra cash to make sure Harold didn't wander the streets at night. Harold had dozens of stories he told over and over again, in the way of a man who has traveled the world, or never been anywhere at all. I listened to him talk less for the delight of his adventures than his timbre, his pitchman's pitch.

The shopping bag stuffed with shopping bags was never far from reach, but when I asked him its meaning or purpose he told me I didn't have the proper clearance. He let me look at his notebooks, but I couldn't read his nanoscopic script. The drawings, far more maniacal than I'd imagined, depicted little girls in snowpants. These bundled moppets rode a magic toboggan through arctic skies. I figured my boy would be safe.

Every day I picked up Bernie at my old apartment, walked him to school. Happy Salamander had reopened. They'd booted Carl from the board. The creamery, apparently, was his new site of revolutionary practice. Maddie had been sketchy about the whole kerfuffle when she called Maura to offer Bernie a spot. We made a joint decision, as separated but equally engaged parents, to give very inexpensive experimental preschool pedagogy another go. Soon enough he'd be fresh meat for the wolf packs at the local kindergarten.

I took Bernie in the afternoons, unless Nick needed me for a job. When Nick heard about the governor's daughter's possible interest in his project, or at least in him as a lesson in cultural failure, he offered me work in gratitude. We did okay. For some reason the deck bubble had not yet burst, and Nick and I had evolved into a crackerjack team. I hauled the tools and the wood and undertook a good deal of the construction. Nick snacked on sausage subs and honed his broadcast vision. My body, it ached all the time. The pain thrilled at first. Maybe it felt authentic. Soon it was just pain.

I began to send out resumes. Late capitalism was a corpse, but you could still get lucky, couldn't you? Besides, I was so unaccomplished, I could fit in anywhere. I'd never pose a threat to colleagues. That would be my angle.

Most evenings I stayed in my basement room, reading or watching television or painting. I had no illusions now. I did not expect to jet down to Miami or over to Venice after the nearly haphazard but ultimately inevitable discovery of my genius. I just wanted to see what I could do with my cache of filched Mediocre paint. My current canvas was called Raskovian/Replacable. I planned to give it to Harold for his birthday, thought he might get a kick out of the giraffe bukkake. One night as I touched up the rusted toboggan in the veldt grass, my phone rang.

"Hey," said a voice.

"Jesus, Don."

"No, just Don."

"Where are you?" I said.

"I'm here, bro. Home. Bangburn Balls. What a goddamn awesome feeling."

"It's good to hear from you," I said. "I've been wondering how you're doing."

"I have been to the mountain, my friend."

"The mountain?"

"Just screwing with you. I was in Texas. Visited Vasquez."

"Vasquez?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that?"

"No. I just thought… you said Vasquez was dead."

"She is dead. I went to her grave. And to see her folks."

"That was good of you."

"It wasn't anything," said Don. "But I'm glad I went. You know, I'm calling because… well, I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"For whatever. I know I was a rat bastard. I don't have specifics."

"I understand."

"I still think you're a leech and a shithead."

"Thanks."

"But my sponsor says I have to make these calls."

"I get it," I said. "Good. You're taking care of yourself."

"I'm back with Sasha now. I'm living in her place in town."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I'm in therapy. For the stress. I have money now."

"You signed the papers."

"They're just fucking papers."

"Right."

"I wasn't going to get love from that prick. Might as well take the money."

"I agree."

"I used to think if I took the money, he won. But now I see it's the opposite. If I don't take the money, he wins. And my anger wins. I'm talking about my anger a lot. I have a lot of anger."

"I'm sure that's true. You've earned it."

"Doesn't matter if I did. I can't keep it. It'll just kill me if keep it. I have to man up to my inner child. Do I sound like a fag? I bet both Nathalie and Purdy would laugh at me. But fuck them. Fuck you, too. And I mean that most sincerely. That's where I am now. You can all take the bad shit back and rot. I'm moving on."

"This is good, Don," I said.

"I don't need your goddamn approval, Milo."

"You called me," I said. "I know-your sponsor made you."

"Actually, I lied about that. I'm doing something a little different than making amends right now. What I'm doing tonight is getting high and calling up people to tell them what spineless twats they are."

Don chuckled, a tiny trace of Purdy's trace. We both hung wordless for a moment.

"You hear from Purdy?" I said.

"I signed some papers."

"No, I mean-"

"And I mean I signed some papers."

"Okay, I understand, Don. I should apologize to you, I guess. I'm sorry."