It always seemed a ringing phone pulling him out of a deep, satisfying sleep presaged a grand change in Mike Stretto's life. On this night, late in a long tour with North America's hero Michael Barton, he was tired. Satisfied? Certainly. Attitude Problem, Stretto's band, had two independently-released singles listed in the Top 100 in the Billboard magazine he knocked off the night stand in his fumble to pick up the phone before it awakened Joel. But tired. Too tired to pick up the phone and deal with somebody else's problems, which he had the ominous feeling he was about to do.

"Hello..." he grunted, pushing back the blankets of both the bed and his hair. He reached for his cigarettes. They weren't there — they were in his luggage, he remembered. He'd hidden them from himself trying to cut back.

'If you can't quit, at least cut back,' his doctor had told him.

'Did you know you have a heart murmur?' he'd asked Mike immediately before the other question, after a day of blood tests, treadmill tests, electronic equipment and electrode gel and volumes of questions. The information hadn't surprised Mike — something had to explain the chest pains that had started shortly after his best friend died, now six months before. Stress, lack of food, lack of sleep, too many cigarettes, the occasional amphetamine. Quite possibly genetics. He was, Dr. Morse had told him, asking for a heart attack before he reached thirty, aside from the diagnosis of an apparently harmless condition. Mike was twenty-seven.

Dr. Morse had finally been persuaded to leave his hospital position at St. Luke's in Covington, Kentucky and open a private practice in nearby Southgate. With aid from several silent partners -- among them Mike's agent, Roddy — Morse now devoted himself entirely to the treatment of occupational conditions and diseases special to those who chose music as a profession. Whenever possible, Morse avoided treating drug addictions. Functional and stress-related disorders had been his specialty before the stint in the metropolitan hospital's emergency room. Carpal tunnel syndrome, tendinitis, chronic laryngitis, ulcers, arthritis, high blood pressure... Mike's screwy heart problem he'd be a bungling idiot to die from, to repeat Morse's own words. As Mark Bridges would be if he died of a stroke from his high blood pressure. Or Jeremy from chronic stomach problems that threatened, eventually, to eat a hole completely through him.

When Mike had suggested it must be depressing to treat so many people who by their nature tended to ignore his advice, Morse had told him his greatest discovery as a doctor had been persistence pays off, even with musicians. He'd badgered Mark for over two years until Mark finally agreed to drug therapy for his erratic blood pressure. Even Jeremy, who made the greatest show of ignoring him, finally put on ten of the thirty pounds Morse had insisted he gain. This meant his diet was at least somewhat more regular. They were small victories, but Mike agreed Morse could afford to congratulate himself. Even a small victory was tough to swipe from any of them.

Mike knew he couldn't quit smoking, not yet. But he'd been up to almost two packs a day before Jerry's death; now he was under one. It had been two months and three weeks since his last attack of angina. He didn't intend to give Morse too hard a time.

"Hello?" he repeated. He could hear muffled traffic noises on the other end of the phone line. Attitude Problem and Michael Barton's band, Ice Trust, were weekending lazy in Birmingham, Alabama. He checked his watch — was surprised to see it was only midnight. He and Joel had clocked out at nine, bored out of their skulls. Janie was in the next room in the hotel. The door between the two adjoining rooms didn't lock. Mike was glad to see she trusted the two of them enough, after three months, the lack of a lock on the door didn't faze her.

"Mike?"

It shouldn't have been but it sounded like Jeremy.

"Yeah it's me, Ryan. Where are you?"

"Atlanta..."

He offered no other information and his response seemed oddly clipped. Jeremy, who could show an entire range of negative emotions with a single word. Well, historically speaking, and in Mike's case, he allowed.

"Is there something wrong, Jeremy?"

"I need to talk to somebody. I know you're not that far away..."

"How far is Birmingham from Atlanta?"

"About a hundred fifty miles."

He was shouting over the din of traffic, now. True to form, and Jeremy surely knew it by now, Barton had rented two Chevy Geos -- one for himself and one for Mike, Joel and Janie to use. A.P.'s was parked just outside.

"Whereabouts are you in Atlanta?"

"I don't know. I... went out for a walk a few hours ago. I passed under the bypass, I think I'm pretty close to I-75 but I don't..."

The longer speeches revealed a queer waver in Jeremy's voice. Mike reached for the nearest pair of Levi's and visually located his shoes and car keys.

"Find out where you are and call me back. I need to know where you are so I can find you when I get there."

"I'm close to the airport. There's a Best Western on the other side of the highway about a mile back, a Denny's about a mile before that..."

"A couple miles? Ryan..."

"I've been walking for three solid hours, Mike. You... hell. You don't have to..."

"Look, what's the exit number closest to you, can you see it?"

"It's a couple blocks away. I'm on the north side of Atlanta, there's a Howard Johnson's and a Marriott the other direction from the Best Western and the Denny's. I can see the airport on the other side of that."

"I know where you are. Cool — you'll walk back and wait at the Denny's, the one you walked past and I'll meet you there. It'll take me about three hours to get there in that Geo."

"Okay. Well, I'll be here."

Mike hung up the phone, sat up and reached over to the other bed to nudge Joel.

"Hey, man — I have to go out for a while, I'm taking the car."

Joel sat up too, poking at the corner of one eye with his index finger.

"What the hell you gonna do in Birmingham at midnight on a Tuesday night?"

"Nothin' -- Ryan just called me from Atlanta. There's something wrong there. I better go."

"Okay. Give me a call when you get there, let me know you made it."

"I'll do it."

Since Jerry's death in the auto accident half a year before, he and Joel had developed the habit of letting each other know such things. Mike didn't do it as much for himself as he did for Joel, but when the favor was returned, he appreciated it.

The airport in Atlanta was about as hard to find as CVG — it, too, was a hub. All hours of day and night planes criss-crossed the skies above the landing strips. Mike followed I-75 through downtown Atlanta, slipping into and out of the sparse traffic at a rate of speed that probably would have alarmed Joel. Mike knew his attention span and reflexes, unlike Jerry's, could handle any speed the little three-cylinder bomb could manage. It was only two-thirty when he parked the tiny blue car in front of Denny's. Jeremy was alone in a back corner of the restaurant.

Mike and Jeremy hadn't seen each other since three months before, on the three-band bill they'd played in Telluride, Colorado. At that time Mike had barely begun recovering from Jerry's death — to the point he'd ever be able to recover from it. To his alarm, the wrong thought or reminder still broke him down and left him depressed for a day and a half. In some ways having Jerry around hadn't been as rewarding as his death had been devastating. In some ways, Mike felt better — in others, he only felt progressively more desolate and lonely. He'd always questioned his own emotional depth and maturity. Now, he thought, he was being proved shallow and adolescent.

He and Joel weren't suited as friends; the gap in their ages and upbringings proved an ocean too wide to more than reach over for music's sake. There wasn't anyone who took up the slack in his life Jerry had left when Jerry had left. In spite of the taste of success and the fact he had a beautiful Amazon redhead absolutely devoted to him beyond all reason back in Cincinnati, wearing a ring that matched the platinum band on his left hand third finger, he was frequently, abysmally lonely.

He locked the Geo and slipped his cigarettes into his pocket. His breath caught for an expanded second as his eye focused on the dark circle on the toe of his left boot. Jerry's blood. He stumbled, righted himself, rubbed angrily at his damp eyes and continued along the cement walkway.

He stopped at the pay phone outside the doors, dropped in a quarter and punched in his calling card number and the number for the desk of their hotel in Birmingham. When the clerk rang the room it was several rings before Joel answered. When he did, he was groggy.

"Hi. Just called to let you know I'm here."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for calling."

"Go back to sleep."

Mike leaned on the phone and searched the inside of the restaurant before passing through the doors. From a foot inside it was clear Jeremy was sick. Even at his most cavalier, Mike had never seen Jeremy look a day older than his age. Now, the weight of eons seemed to bend his shoulders. Jeremy’s unerringly straight posture canted to one side; he sat flipping through the pages of a newspaper in the booth, occasionally sipping from a coffee cup. Mike slid in across from him and propped his elbows on the newsprint. As soon as Jeremy glanced upMike he read the situation through dilated pupils ringed by the Christmas green of Jeremy's irises and the red of strained blood vessels.

"Oh no, Ryan. You're not..."

Jeremy's glance flicked up to Mike's, then away. He didn't take a turn speaking.

"Why, Ryan? Why now?"

Jeremy lit a cigarette, emptied the coffee pot into his cup and folded the newspaper back into shape — all with the obsessive calculation of a dex freak. He was abusing amphetamines again after four years clean. Mike hadn't been around the first time. Having been warned of something he'd already suspected — they were a dangerous vice for a man with a heart condition — Mike had sworn off totally. But he'd abused them before without enjoying the sensation so much he'd been hooked. Not so for Jeremy, who had driven himself to a physical collapse with them four years before; done so even without them, once or twice in the interim. Obviously it was more than mere convenience or simple physical vice for him.

"It's damned nice to see you, too, Stretto. How's life been treating you?"

Jeremy propped his chin in his left hand and blinked expectantly. The fear Mike felt crept over his skin; left a film of sweat in its wake that made him want to shiver in the frigid restaurant, even under his leather jacket.

"Not so bad if I can stand to treat myself like a crippled old man. Which is to say I hope if I'm careful I can go on living a while — but not so careful I don't want to live at all because it's a chore. ¿Y tú — que tal, Jeremy?"

"Lia's in the hospital. Toxemia. I'm on call. She could die. The baby could die. I fall asleep for five minutes and I wake up thinking I hear the phone. She's already died four or five times in my dreams. I can't sleep."

Mike knew Alicia had been in the hospital five times so far. She'd been in four days this trip. It had been disturbing his sleep. God knew how it was affecting Jeremy's. He reached out to touch Jeremy's elbow.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I know. You got me up when you called, I fell over dead asleep about nine o'clock. My sleep hasn't been too great either, the past three or four nights..."

"Oh, you were right, Mike. You're the only one I can admit it to. Not that Mark doesn't probably already know..."

"Why aren't you back at the hotel talking to him right now, if he already knows?"

Jeremy shivered and pulled on his cigarette in a much-belated effort to cover his loss of control.

"If I actually talk to him he'll know for sure I'm speeding again. I can't... can't do that to him, for god's sake, Mike. I've failed him enormous this time. So damned many times... I just never get the feeling I've failed you. You never make me feel like I've failed you."

"You never have, Ryan."

"I have, but you never make me feel it."

"I think... Ryan, please let me call Bridges and let him know where you are and that you're okay. Or, well, not okay — but with me. That's closer to the truth isn't it..."

"Go ahead. They're out at the Holiday Inn."

"Why don't you pay for your coffee and go on out to the car... here, you'll need the keys."

Jeremy slid out of the booth and reached back for his grey leather jacket. His body looked wasted and rubbery. So much for Morse's ten pounds, Mike thought. Jeremy bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for Mike to drag himself up out of the booth, put on his jacket and fish a quarter from his pocket.

"It's the blue Geo. The one that's out there praying to the god of motor vehicles to take it now..." he said, pointing toward the front window of the restaurant. Jeremy nodded vaguely; closed his hand over Mike's wrist as Mike handed him the keys.

"Mike, thanks. For coming up here I mean. I... needed you."

Mike nodded and pulled his hand away, blinking at the face of a wired stranger who was sometimes a close friend.

"I know, Ryan. You asked me and I'm here. You were there for me..."

"God that seems like a century ago. Has it only been six months?" Jeremy whispered, staring at Mike intently.

"Go on out to the car, Jeremiah. Please. You're scaring the shit out of me right now."

"I know, I can see that..." Jeremy turned away and started past Mike, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"You can't help it. It's okay..."

Jeremy left the restaurant jingling the car keys in his hand. Mike dreaded it but he went to the phone just outside and looked up the number for the Atlanta Holiday Inn. The clerk punched him through to the room; Mark answered on the second ring.

"Jeremiah?"

"It's Mike. I've got him with me, he called me a couple hours ago from here. We're in Atlanta. I'll look out for him."

"He's popping pills again, the stupid bastard. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. Is he okay?"

Mike felt nauseated for a moment; wanted to hang up the phone, slump on the asphalt and go to sleep forever. He made himself answer.

"No. I'm sorry... I don't want to be the one who's here for him when you could be here, Mark..."

"I think I understand it. If it wasn't for the speed, it'd be me. He think's I'll judge him. He thinks I'll feel like he's let me down..."

Mark had been shouting, screaming, possibly weeping -- Mike didn't actually want to know.

"Mark, he has let you down. Have you judged him?"

"It was my first impulse, and I did. It's okay, Mike — he needs to need somebody other than me once in a while. He'll be back here eventually. You need somebody to need you right now as much as he needs what he does."

"God we're a bunch of neurotic idiots."

"Yeah. But when we feel good it feels good all over. You gotta do what you can for him, Mike. Funny — three months ago, you wanted to feel like you owed me one — here's your chance to clear your ledger. If I can't be there, even though I know you will, I have to ask you to take care of him."

"You know I will. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need to be the one, this time."

"It's okay, Mike. He..."

Mark's voice went. Mike felt the pain in his chest, vaguely. He didn't need this. Four more weeks before he could be with his wife. It sounded like eternity. He felt as tired as he could have felt and still held his feet.

"I know, Mark. I gotta go, he's waiting out in the car."

"Mike... Are you okay?"

"Does it really matter right now? Ryan's broken down, somebody's gotta fix him and he picked me. I'll talk at you later, okay?"

"Mike — come on, man. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Bridges, right now you're hurting me more than he is, okay? I know the only reason it's me and not you is he's staring death in the face on every side and he knows I've already done that and come through it. I'm the only person he knows other than Lia who's lost somebody they were that close to. That's why I'm here and you're there..."

"What do you mean?"

"He's convinced he's going to lose either her or the baby — maybe both."

"Is she that sick?"

"You're asking me? Ask Marta. I don't know. I know Ryan thinks she's that sick. The facts don't seem to matter very much to him right now, Mark... I... I don't think reality is a big part of his world at this point."

Mark started to speak then Mike heard what sounded very much like a knotted fist pounding a laminated night stand.

"I can never think that way, dammit!" Mark shouted. "Dammit, he's so smart — why does he have to do that to himself?"

"I don't know. I only know I do it to myself, too. That's another reason he called me in from Birmingham. I have to go, Bridges. I'll be in touch."

"If you need anything..."

Mike left it at that and hung up the phone.

The sky was soft overhead when he started toward the car. A layer of clouds blocked the stars and the moon. It was really too warm for the leather jacket. September in the south — but it was an affectation he liked so well it was difficult to give it up except in dead summer. Jeremy was sitting on the Metro's snubbed hood when Mike reached the car.

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah. You big dummy — he knows what's going on, pretty much."

"I'm tired of making Mark be my boneyard."

"He's your best friend, Ryan. He loves you. He never minds."

Mike dropped his hands on Jeremy's shoulders; shook Jeremy gently until he lifted his head.

"The truth is Ryan, so do I. And I don't mind either."

Jeremy's hands came up to close over Mike's wrists.

"Mike, thanks for giving me the option of not doing this to Mark again. He says he doesn't mind but... he takes it all so personally, most of the time. He... can only help me by eating my problems. If they do this to me I know they're poisonous... I can't always watch him do that."

And that explained much of what had seemed confusing for Mike about Jeremy's calling him instead of talking to Mark. Jeremy could stand to watch Mike deal with it; couldn't stand to watch Mark do it. Mike would be leaving; he'd have to go on living with Mark. It made perfect sense and Mike could see Jeremy was right on one score — Mark did tend to take Jeremy's problems too personally to be good at helping him deal with them. There was such a thing as too close.

"I understand, man. I'll be gone tomorrow or the next day, no matter what you say or do to me, but you have to live with Bridges for the rest of your life. And you know I never consider your pain my failure, like he does sometimes."

Jeremy's stiff shoulders relaxed and he leaned forward until his head rested on Mike's forearm.

"Mike... I'm wired out of my brain right now. Not just the speed... everything. Thank you for... letting me know you understand."

"You knew I did, or at least that I could. If you hadn't known it, you wouldn't have called and asked me to drive a hundred and fifty miles at midnight."

Jeremy lifted his head and turned a frighteningly lucid stare on Mike.

"You're absolutely right."

They folded two too-long bodies into the tiny car. As soon as the door closed behind him Jeremy seemed vaguely uneasy.

"Not enough car for you?" Mike asked, kicking over the willing, if whining three-cylinder engine. To Mike's mild surprise it kicked over instantly, even after the trip at eighty miles an hour, but it was the farthest possible cry from his 1971 Corvette or Jeremy's 1967 Mustang; in fact it made him more than a little uneasy to drive it on the highway. He thought about the trip up the interstate at eighty and shivered. After Jerry's accident, Laura's Celica — with its superior suspension and brakes — had been the only car he'd had the nerve to push above sixty-five.

"No..." Jeremy admitted, staring out over the foreshortened hood with a mild sort of terror glazing his usually placid features. His left leg twitched against the console; his foot bounced steadily on the floor. The entire car jerked with it, making it feel like even the third cylinder wasn't too sure it could go on with its mission.

"Any place in particular you wanna go?" Mike asked, searching for his cigarettes. He found them, lit two, handed Jeremy one and lowered his window an inch and a half.

"I'll pay for the gas if you'll stay off the interstates and just drive..." Jeremy said.

"Deal."

"What the hell am I gonna do, Mike?"

Mike thought, but didn't say, give me whatever stash you're carrying around on you.

"Do you always think being sick means dying? Ryan... when it was me did you think that then, too? Is that... is that why you were such a steel bastard about all of it?"

"Well, yeah — I guess it is. And I do, usually."

"Because lots of women get toxemia late in a pregnancy. It's serious but... well, they usually come through okay. And the kids do, too. I'm... promise me you won't punch the shit outta me if I'm wrong about this..."

"If you're wrong I'll save it."

"It just occurs to me this seems like an awful lot of heartache to be putting yourself through — even for you, Ryan. And I wonder if maybe you feel guilty because you're not feeling something you think you should. You can handle worrying, Ryan — I know you. You worry better than anybody I know except maybe my mom. For you, simple worry usually isn't this destructive. Guilt, however is something you do not handle well. This is guilt isn't it?"

Jeremy's hand curved around the small space between them, rocketing into Mike's shoulder, without any prelude, like a hammer. Mike's eyes bugged wide and he shouted; waited for a repeater, gritting his teeth, forcing his attention on the road. The repeater never came. Jeremy fought for his next breath, found it and gasped out an apology.

"Oh god, Mike — I'm sorry. If... if you'd been wrong I could have taken that, no problem... I couldn't have promised you I wouldn't do that if you were right though..."

The pain brought tears to Mike's eyes and he tried to rub at the edges of the knotted muscle with the other hand for a time, balancing his cigarette on his lip. So this is what it meant to be Jeremy Ryan's friend. A lot like what it had meant to be Jerry Pender's friend as a matter of fact, he reminded himself and his indignation dissolved in a flood of weary amusement.

"Every fucking time I did that to Jerry he found a way to make me pay for it, too. Go ahead Ryan," he sighed, picking the cigarette out of his mouth and leaning until his shoulder touched Jeremy's in the cramped space. "Go on — do it again. If it makes you feel better I'll pull over the car, we can get out and you can whip the shit out of me. I won't hit back. I won't make you regret it. When you hit me, you're not really hitting another person. You see so much of yourself in me, it's really just hitting yourself. You're not hurting somebody else when you hurt me — you're hurting you."

Jeremy's fist landed again but on his own thigh, this time. It was at least equal to the blow he'd landed on Mike. Mike was damned glad it hadn't landed on him this time, all tough guy bullshit aside. Jeremy dropped his head on the shoulder Mike offered.

"It's only the second time in my life I ever hurt another person with my hands..." he whispered. "How could you let me do that?"

Mike propped the steering wheel straight with one knee and lifted his hands to describe a football referee's 'time out'.

"Hold on. Don't you even dream I'm going to let you blame me for that. Hey, it's okay Ryan — I don't mind you socking me, I just told you that. But don't try to blame me for it. I did not ask for that and I don't want you to hurt me so I can have an excuse to hurt you back later on. You're not gonna get one for one outta me no matter what happened last time when it was you and Bridges. I don't mind being hurt if it helps you. If I thought letting you use me as a punching bag would make you okay, I'd pull over right now and just sit down in the dirt and let you kick the shit outta me..."

Jeremy was silent for a time, smoking his cigarette. He finally spoke again more quietly.

"It... it won't happen again, Mike. God, it won't have to. You are right — I was trying to hurt me."

His voice was steadier; it sounded like he was getting at least one foot back under him now. Mike knew the process would be long and slow — it always was — but any progress at all made him feel the trip hadn't been wasted.

"So what is it you feel so guilty about you tried to break my arm — or yours, for that matter."

Jeremy's head still rested against Mike's shoulder. Though his voice was low and steady Jeremy's body was one long, thin tremor.

"At first, the fact Lia got pregnant when we weren't expecting it just made me angry. We really had been careful — really had made an effort. I just saw my mom and Jon in my head. It's too close for that, and it's just not something I can handle with my brains — I handle it with my body instead of my brains, Stretto. I managed to get over some of it though. Hell, maybe a lot of it. Lia's stronger than my mom was, and she's a few years older, she knows herself better. She'd never put up with the shit outta me Jeanna put up with out of Jon. Mike it's... it's been almost eight months now. And I've never felt anything for that baby she's carrying around inside her. Well, other than fear. I can't love it right now. I keep catching myself thinking maybe it'd be just as well if she lost it..."

It felt like a kick in Mike's stomach to hear Jeremy say it. He understood that feeling well enough. It would have been hard for Jeremy, with his history and in his situation, not to have felt it. Still it was a tough one for Mike to handle.

"Ryan has it ever occurred to you what you're feeling might be a perfectly reasonable and sensible reaction? I can understand how it might not make you feel very noble... but after all you went through as a kid, you're lucky you can even consider having kids of your own. I'm surprised what you feel is as mild as ambivalence. There's gonna be plenty of times when Laura and I walk into this I'm gonna want to jump off a bridge. But I gotta tell you, Ryan — a replay of your mom and dad ends up with both you and Alicia dead. I know you don't want that. I don't want it either — I care about her too, Ryan. I care about your kid. I had a pretty rough childhood myself. You know you could do better than your dad and my dad without much effort. But you are gonna have to quit tryin' to commit suicide so you don't have to prove that to all of us and to yourself. And you're going to have to realize it's no sin against Alicia or the baby that you're so scared of what you watched happen to your parents you can't get past it to feel anything else yet."

Mike slipped his arm up over Jeremy's shoulder and squeezed Jeremy's upper arm in his hand. Jeremy sighed and resettled his head against Mike's shoulder.

"It... really isn't..."

"No, it isn't. You have every reason to be scared outta your skull right now. I know it's hard for you to let that show. God forbid she should see it. And I know the reason you don't want her to see you're out of it right now is she lost her dad, too, 'cause she told me about it. Would it help you any to know she's got a few buckets of I'm not so sure if it might not be better if... hidden in her closet too? She'd never tell you, I told her I wouldn't but I can't not tell you right now."

"She never said —"

"Of course she didn't! You didn't either, did you?"

"No."

"Ryan, it's always possible you'll lose her. And it's possible she'll lose the baby. If she does lose it, she's going to feel every bit as guilty as you do, right now. Are you gonna stay out here, off the deep end, and make the rest of us take care of her? I mean, we'll do it if we have to... but I think you're better than that."

Mike glanced down. A damp spot was spreading over his shirt where Jeremy's temple rested on his shoulder. He slipped his palm over the length of Jeremy's upper arm and turned his eyes back to the road.

"If the baby dies I can get over that. It's losing her I can't stand the thought of..."

"I know that feeling, too. If she does lose it, you'll be chasing her around the inside of her head for a while. I remember what it was like for Gil and Mom when Robert was born brain damaged. She blamed it on herself, on everything she'd done the last nine months. She acted like I wasn't even there for a while. She acted like she hated Gil. She didn't want to feel better. She'd just sit there next to the bed and stare at him, waiting for him to notice she was there. Far as I know in thirteen years he never has."

"I got that on my brain, too. I was born with clubfoot or something, Jon went in the army so the government doctors could work on me. The baby's okay, I think. She's had a couple of ultrasounds done and the other thing with the needle."

"Just curious -- did you go with her for those?"

"For the ultrasounds. Her OB did it in her office out in Florence. The other one was in the hospital... and I was in Seattle."

"It's gotta be hard to feel anything for this, being gone for so much of it, anyway."

"My... half of me is there. I'm starting to feel schizo doing it, but..."

"Ease up on yourself, Ryan. Lia's got Marta and Jill and Laura and Roddy back there. Give yourself a break. For five minutes..."

"Now?"

"Why not now? Just sit here like this and let yourself be a selfish bastard for five minutes without chewing a hole in yourself over it."

"It's been so hard not to just drop it, Mike. Not to just walk into an airport and buy a one-way back to CVG. Especially this past week, she's been feeling so bad and talking out of her head... I want to be with her. But dammit, music is the only thing I really believe makes me different from my dad or from hers. My daddy didn't raise anything but a twelve-gauge shotgun. What kind of insanity makes me think — even dare to dream — I can do any better than he did?"

"You've already done better. You waited for her for ten years. And everybody knows you both think it was worth it. You both think it was meant to be. You've got so much to offer a kid, if you can stay alive to be around to help bring it up. Don't do what you were thinkin' about doing when you called me tonight, Ryan. Don't... don't shove a handful of whites in your mouth and burn yourself off the face of the earth. The —"

"No!" Jeremy shouted, without lifting his head from Mike's shoulder. "You're not allowed to know that..."

"I'm the only one who can know it and not be so scared it paralyzes me. I know how it feels to want to die, Jeremiah. I've been there myself a time or two thousand the past six months..."

"Christ, we let you fall that far... I'm sorry, Mike."

"I let me fall that far. You guys and Laura are the only reason it didn't happen that first night. I've never been that eager to die in my whole life."

"We know. We're not like that either, most of the time..." Jeremy said. It was as if two people had actually spoken. A little weird, Mike had to admit. Jeremy had willfully kept his personality split into before and after his parents' deaths all his life. Mike knew he'd been dealing with Jeremiah, the heartbroken seven year old. Now Jeremy the man was pulling himself back into control again. The healing process would have to start over — a grown man needed different help than a genius child, and was less able to accept it. Jeremy sat up away from Mike's shoulder, blinking uncertainly.

"Where are we, Mike?" he insisted, patting his pockets for his cigarettes. Mike handed him his own pack and lighter.

"Atlanta."

"I know... but I thought you were in Birmingham. Attitude Problem..."

Jeremy reached over to pinch Mike's upper arm. Mike grunted and slapped his hand away — the pain was incredible. Jeremy really had hurt him.

"What's wrong?" Jeremy insisted.

"You socked me about half an hour ago. Must've really got me good."

His shoulder, when he finally lifted his arm above it, felt like it was burning. He sank a tooth in his lower lip to keep the grunt inside — it felt like he'd fallen on it from ten feet. Jeremy touched him again and he shouted before he could bite it back.

"Oh, man..." Jeremy lightened the pressure of his hand until Mike could tolerate it. Even at that it made his eyes leak. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Mike admitted. It wasn't an easy admission, knowing how readily Jeremy blamed himself for pain and how thoroughly his fault this particular pain was. "You really did let me have it."

Jeremy closed his eyes, dropped his head and sighed.

"I really am sorry, Mike. I think I tried not to, but..."

"It's okay. I told you and I meant it — if it'll make you okay to work me over I'll pull over right now and park, you can go at me."

"You'd sit there and let me beat the shit out of you?"

"If it's between having the shit kicked outta me and having another person die on me because I didn't do enough... hell yeah, Ryan. You were pretty close to that when I got here. Short of letting you kill me, I was pretty well ready and willing for anything else. I got a hard question for you, but you're going to answer me. Where's your stash?"

"My... why do you want to know?"

"You know why I want to know. They're going 'bye-'bye as soon as I get my hands on them. Give them to me."

Jeremy snatched his jacket from the rear seat and held it bundled on his knees. He didn't verbally refuse Mike, but Mike had a sick feeling the words didn't have to overlay the actions. He dropped the Geo onto the shoulder of the road, pocketed the keys and reached for the jacket. Jeremy was out the door and over the guard rail almost before Mike's hand dropped through the empty air to hit the seat. Great, Mike thought. I need this.

He locked his door and trotted after Jeremy into a dry, cracked and fallow stretch of reddish land. They were far enough out of the city of Atlanta by this time, there probably wasn't another person within a mile in any direction. There was still a clear danger of Jeremy's swallowing the contents of the bottle Mike hadn't seen; knew was in the jacket. He stopped to pull off his boots — he couldn't run in them, especially not to keep up with Jeremy in his ubiquitous white Pumas. He stuffed his socks into the boots. Barefoot, Mike was more than Jeremy's match. He set them just outside the guard rail and trotted to catch up with Jeremy's long strides. The shoulder hurt each time he swung his arm.

"Ryan, come on."

"Shut up, Mike. You don't understand," Jeremy shouted back over his shoulder. The jacket swung loosely from one hand. Mike jogged until he was close enough to touch Jeremy's shoulder; jerked him to a halt.

"Don't be stupid, man. Come on."

Jeremy walked away again without meeting his eye. Mike hesitated a few steps then started after him. His one hope died in the dust when Jeremy — amped up like a cyclotron — broke into a sprint. Now only sheer determination was going to end this. Mike pushed himself up to speed and paced Jeremy. At this rate he'd be able to keep up — but he'd never close the gap. Jeremy was running at the top of his ability; Mike could hear his breathing roughen as he pushed himself. The blonde banner of his hair teased at Mike from the one step lead Jeremy had on him. Mike glared at it and pumped his legs and made everything else go away, still pacing Jeremy, not yet willing to ask of his body the one thing he knew it could give but would cost a great deal.

It was at the five minute point Mike realized how long he'd lasted at just under the fastest he could run. It was probably giving up the other half pack of cigarettes a day. Jeremy was still holding, but he'd been running flat out and Mike hadn't; the gap was closing between Mike's hand and Jeremy's hair. Half a minute more, he could play Australian football and slam Jeremy down in the dirt. Mike didn't want to hurt him — he hoped he wouldn't, but there was a part of Mike that said if he was going to do it this way, he was going to have to.

Jeremy faltered on one step. Mike's hand went up for the flag of hair the same moment his lungs shut down. The pain across his chest was fierce — like the blade of a razor had sliced diagonally across his flesh. He stumbled a step and dropped on his chest on the dusty, sun-baked earth. Panic flared in the back of his brain, like swimming under water too long and you can't breathe yet or you'll die. The dark landscape canted around him then spun; he reached out with one hand as if to scoop air into his lungs. He forgot Jeremy; forgot Atlanta and Birmingham. He thought it was probably, finally, a heart attack no matter his doctor had said this wasn't where his condition was going... said 'good-bye' to Laura as he closed his eyes and waited for his brain to shut off. It did.

He opened his eyes. Everything insisted on whirling so he closed them again. Every part of his body from his floating rib on up felt like it had been whacked three times with a hammer. But his heart beat steadily in his ears and he was getting sufficient oxygen out of the air around him. The hand on his throat was clammy. He opened his eyes again and remembered who, and where, and why. Things still insisted on spinning but he forced himself to keep his eyes open. When he tried to sit up his neck gave out halfway and his head dropped back to Jeremy's lap. Jeremy's hand brushed his forehead — again, clammy. Mike blinked sweat out of his eyes and stared up at Jeremy's face, floating pale above him in the dimness.

"God — what happened?" he whispered, then a cough belted its way out of his chest and kept kicking at his ribs for half a minute. Jeremy lifted him until he was sitting more or less upright; rubbed a hand along his spine until his breath came easily again. When Mike finally lifted his head and breathed, one long gasp, Jeremy handed him a plain brown prescription bottle without meeting his eye, muttering something that sounded to Mike like "I don't know what to say...."

"This is it?" Mike managed, though his throat felt brittle from the persistence with which he'd sawed all those gallons of air through.

"Mark would already have found the ones I had back at the room, by now. I'm such a fucking asshole..."

Mike rubbed at his shoulder. The stripe across his chest didn't hurt anymore. He'd just hyperventilated, he knew now. Watching Jeremy instead of watching his own breathing. The relief of realizing that made him dizzy all by itself.

"Boy, you're a hell of a sprinter..." Mike croaked, laughing. "I thought I was dead..."

"You shouldn't push yourself like that," Jeremy advised, his voice wavering. "You spend too damned much time sitting on your ass..." His hand clamped over Mike's wrist. It almost hurt, but not quite. "I thought you were dead too for just one second. You weren't breathing. And I had to realize I would have been willing to let you kill yourself over that bottle... and I..."

Jeremy closed his eyes; dropped his hand; turned away. Mike opened the bottle, lifted Jeremy's palm and emptied the pills into it.

"Well, there they are. You like 'em so much you'd let me kill myself chasin' you down. You got 'em, Jeremiah. Look at what’s in your hand — that’s what my life is worth to you. It's worth less than that little pile of pills. Either you look at them or look at me, Jeremiah."

Jeremy's body jerked and he closed his eyes again momentarily, hand clenching over the mound of pills.

"Mike, please..."

"I didn't want you to give them to me, Ryan. Hell, I haven't had one in six months. I don't want them."

Jeremy's fist trembled, clenched around the pills then he opened his eyes, stared at Mike and pitched them away into the darkness.

"What was I thinking? What was I thinking, Mike?" he insisted, shouting. Mike shouted back.

"The same thing you're always thinking, Ryan -- that you have to be everything to everybody! All you absolutely have to be right now is Alicia's husband. The rest of it will take care of itself, if you do that as well as you can. How many times have you told me that same thing? Too goddamned many times not to know it yourself, you idiot! From now on, every time I think I'm the biggest moron on the face of the earth I'm gonna remind myself you're an inch taller than me!"

Jeremy stared at him. Mike knew what he was waiting for — he was waiting for Mike to shrug, shake his head, close his eyes, turn away. Mike didn't. It wasn't disgust or contempt he felt — just simple, righteous anger. The very things he saw in Jeremy right now that hurt most were things he didn't like in himself.

"It's not contempt, Ryan. That would be too easy for you. I'm just pissed at you like I get pissed at myself, for the same reasons. We never see, we never listen and we sure as hell never learn. Not either one of us."

Jeremy stood up and offered Mike his hand. It was probably stupid to try to stand up — Mike didn't have much faith in his knees yet — but he tried to pull himself to his feet. Jeremy ended up supporting him.

"Christ, Mike — how could you let me put you through this?" Jeremy insisted. Mike steadied on his legs but he didn't back away.

"It was a volunteer operation. You know, like the Persian Gulf. Unlike most everybody else around you, I know what it's like every time I come in. I care, Ryan. You can be a pretty good guy when you got it in you. And I know I'm the only one you don't die a little bit every time you accept help from. I've asked just as much of you before as you asked of me."

"I always wanted to feel like I had a brother. I guess I always wanted it to feel like Bridges was my brother but it's never quite felt like that with him..."

"He's your best friend. You’d put him through as much shit as you put me through, if he was your brother..." Mike laughed. Jeremy laughed, too — in a manner of speaking — and they stood apart.

"I guess you're right. And if I treated him like I've treated you most of the time, he'd beat the hell outta me. Do you remember which way the car is? Shit — where are your boots?"

"Took 'em off. Couldn't've kept up with you. I'd have broken my neck for sure, or at least my ankle, if I'd tried to run in them."

Mike squinted back into the darkness. Aside from the faint glow from the city of Atlanta reflected off the underside of the brooding, low clouds there was no other light. Well, except for...

"Your door must not have shut all the way, I think I can see the dome light in the car," Mike said, squinting at the tiny beacon.

"Holy shit — did we run that far? That fast?" Jeremy asked, hanging his hand off Mike's elbow momentarily. Mike laughed again.

"No wonder I keeled over. I ain't run a mile solid like that since I was about sixteen. Used to run cross-country, I was a miler..."

"Me too..." Jeremy said as Mike's bare feet started padding over the packed earth toward the faint beacon of the Geo's dome light.

"Figures..." Mike shrugged. He hurt and he was tired... but it had worked. Hadn't it? Well, he could hope so. Jeremy pulled his jacket back on.

"Bet we ruined your jacket..." Jeremy said after they'd been walking for a few minutes. "I'll buy you another one."

"Skip it, Ryan. I don't need you evening things up, okay? Just fuck it. Just leave it alone."

"What's wrong?"

"Ten minutes ago you were psychotic. Give me a few to catch up."

"No. Ten minutes ago I was acting like a very frightened seven year old. One who's afraid he'll be forgotten when the new baby comes..."

Jeremy kicked at the film of dust that coated the terra cotta colored baked clay. The dust rained, cool, over the tops of Mike's bare feet.

"Ever read Sibyl, Ryan?"

Jeremy laughed.

"Yeah. I know I'm either bipolar — manic depressive — or a functional dual personality. I'm clinically insane, in other words. I know."

"I guess it's not really crazy considering how well it works. You're either totally responsible for everything that happens in the world, or —"

"Or I'm a little kid trapped in a grown man's body. The only thing that's really different is both of my... sides, I guess... both of them are always there, always aware of what's going on. They — I remember everything. Most of the time I'm Jeremy — with a little bit of the other thrown in to keep me from being a total steel bastard. But even when I cut loose and act like a kid like that, it's all there in the front of my mind, I don't forget one of them when the other one is in control..."

"The strangest part of it is... Mark says you didn't have that split until fifteen years later. I understand you had amnesia... I mean, I know you did. You'd be one for the books, my friend. Lot of shrinks would love to get ahold of you."

"What about you and your 'psychosomatic' chest pains?" Jeremy asked.

"For your information Ryan, it's angina. I have what Morse calls a heart murmur. They cause angina if I don't watch myself. I already know about it — Jason has one, don't even tell me. He learned his limits when he was a kid, when he found out about it. I never learned mine..."

Jeremy stopped Mike with a hand on his left shoulder.

"Mike, I wasn't making light of it. I was trying to... to remind you not everything's always in our heads. Just 'cause we live there so much doesn't give us an excuse to abuse and neglect the bus when the driver doesn't think he needs it. Besides, Jason — wait a minute. Jason?"

"I didn't say it. I assumed he'd already told you about it. I didn't tell you. Period."

Jeremy closed his eyes; shook his head as if to clear it. He looked at Mike, started to smile then very nearly folded up in the dirt. He grabbed for Mike's shoulder again. Mike spun and caught him.

"Ryan?"

"I'm just about out of it. Shit. Gotta get to the car. You don't need to have to carry me... Mike, I'm sorry in advance. I'm crashing. I'm not sure how much farther... I'm so tired my brain keeps stopping cold on me."

Mike lifted Jeremy's arm over his shoulder and grasped a belt loop on Jeremy's Levi's with his other thumb.

"Let me know if this stops working, we'll arrange something else."

"Happens every time... I black out. Brain just throws a breaker..."

"I know. Remember the day after I met Laura when I came out to the house. You gave me a hard time over it. R.I...."

"R.I.?"

"Righteous Indignation."

"I don't remember..." Jeremy whispered, dropping his head wearily on Mike's shoulder.

"Liar. It's inconvenient for you to remember right now. I was even afraid to tell you. 'Cause everybody was so convinced you were perfect..."

For all Jeremy couldn't hold his head upright at that point his voice was clear. Mike knew the bone-dry coherence must be taking a high price.

"Mike, I think you know I'm not the kind of person who enjoys lying to the people around him. Especially Lia. But if you don't think she can keep it to herself, for God's sake don't tell your wife about this. She'll tell mine, and mine's in no shape to have to know this now. When she's better, I'll tell her. But please, Mike, if she can't keep it to herself don't tell Laura about it yet..."

The car was less than two city blocks away now. Jeremy held his breath until Mike answered.

"Okay, Ryan. I won't tell Laura anything you don't want me to."

"Thanks, Mike."

Jeremy's hand, closed over Mike's right shoulder for support, squeezed the bruised tissues. Mike held his breath until the pain backed off a little bit. Jeremy was flickering in and out of coherence. Mike stopped walking, turned to knock an arm behind Jeremy's knees and lift him. Better that than searching for Jeremy's teeth in the red dust after he'd fallen on his face.

"What are you doing?" Jeremy insisted, jerking his head up from Mike's shoulder. Mike knew he'd pay for this exertion, too. His lower back was calling him names almost audibly already.

"Keeping you from going down in the dirt on your nose."

"Like I let you, you mean."

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

"I'm sorry about all this, Mike."

"You are not, Ryan. Don't be. You know I understand."

"I'm tearing you up. I must be."

If you only knew, Ryan, Mike thought but all he said was, "Shut up, Jeremy."

It seemed like four hours but Mike finally bumped his shins against the guard rail. And came to the earth-shattering realization he'd never be able to step over it carrying Jeremy.

"Hey, Ryan. Ryan..."

No response. Other than his almost inaudible snore Jeremy was dead to the world. Mike snorted, then felt a completely uncontrollable giggle start inside him. Best get Ryan down now — once it started, and it would start, Mike's legs would go. He leaned across the guard rail to settle Jeremy on the dry weeds. As soon as his shoulders were even with his hips something exploded in his lower back from the area of most constant complaint. Jeremy fell the last six inches to the grass and Mike pitched head first over the rail, unable to move again.

"Oh god, I've really done it this time..."

Even his stomach hurt. Laughing definitely hurt but he couldn't stop or even control it. Like tears with frustration, laughter came with relief. He finally managed to lift his legs over the rail, but the immediate pain in both his lower back and the duller, more persistent ache in his shoulder made a red ring around his field of vision. And he'd still have to pick Jeremy up again and lift him into the car. And again on the other end to get him into his hotel room. For a moment the laugh almost went the other way.

Mike dusted his feet in the grass and reached for his boots; dropped the socks in the grass and pulled the boots on over his bare feet. The flame in his back was burning down to a warm ache. Nothing near as bad as he'd thought at first. Fortunate. If he couldn't pick Jeremy up again to haul him into the car, the two of them would have to sit it out beside this empty field until either the police found them — and what an explanation that would be — or until Jeremy emerged from his apparent coma. Mike was only glad it was so dark he couldn't see. Jeremy's appearance right now probably would have scared him witless.

He lit a cigarette and waited for the wobble to leave his legs. When it did, he flicked the remainder of the cigarette away over his shoulder and stood up. No way to get Jeremy back up the way he'd been carrying him. Jeremy wouldn't care if Mike dragged him across the ditch; it was dry. If Mike didn't ruin the Pumas, Jeremy would probably forgive anything else.

As soon as Mike lifted Jeremy's shoulders off the ground and started the slog backward toward the car the demons hammering in his right shoulder threatened to numb the arm and leave it completely useless. He tightened his stomach muscles, stared at the sky and kept moving. A short eon later he bumped the car. He was so relieved he nearly dropped Jeremy on his back on the gravel shoulder.

Though he'd locked his door, Jeremy's had been the one that hadn't closed. Mike prayed thanks to every Prime Mover he could remember, snapped a hand back and jerked the door open. Thank god, he thought, Jeremy had been out of it when he'd flown out of the car.

At Holiday Inn, he realized he had no idea which room Jeremy was in. He drove around the horseshoe-shaped lot searching for Jeremy's white Toyota wagon. At the end of one leg of the lot he saw the hawk's profile and Ben Franklin glasses that always meant Mark. Mark was perched on the hood of the station wagon looking profoundly ill at ease. Mike rolled to a stop in the adjoining space and levered himself out of the car. Suddenly, between Jeremy and the shut-down and his shoulder, he felt sick to his stomach. Mark dropped off the hood of the Corolla and joined him.

"How is he?"

Mike dropped his head on crossed arms on the roof of the wagon.

"I think he'll be okay. He threw the pills away..." Mike said. He was too weary and nauseated to give details.

"I'll go get you a Coke — you look a little green, son."

Mark touched his shoulder and it was all Mike could do to hold himself up, even though more than half his weight was already being supported by the Toyota's McPhersons. He lifted his head; Mark brushed his fingertips over Mike's brow. It stung where he'd taken the header into the dirt.

"Hey, man — what happened?" Mark asked.

"It's a long story. Will you help me get him in the room? I think I've about had it... once I have a chance to barf and wash up, I'll be able to sit down and tell you what happened."

"Go on in, I'll get him inside and lock up your car."

"I'd appreciate that, actually," Mike sighed, pushing himself upright. Even in pain and feeling like a sheet of newsprint in the city wind, his back fell into perfect alignment.

"Go on in, Stretto...."

He did. In a show of consideration he'd forgotten to expect, Mark came in the bathroom to hand him a pair of Jeremy's Levi's and one of his sweat shirts. Mike wiped down the white jacket with a damp cloth. In several places, the coral-colored dust had been ground into the leather — the elbows, the points where his shoulders had hit ground under the leather. The jacket was well and truly ruined. At least he'd preserved the boots, he thought, wiping dust off them as well.

He was red from the soles of his feet to his knees. He stripped to his underwear then took it off too and stepped into the shower to rinse the clay off. For five full minutes he turned down the cold water and scalded his shoulder and the small of his back. When he turned off the water, his lower back felt pretty nearly normal again, as did most of the rest of him.

Mark had already bedded Jeremy down when Mike emerged. Mike dropped his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor beside the door and joined Mark at the table. Mark handed him a cigarette and the promised can of Coke. Mike's stomach was still kicking; he was more grateful than he could ever have expressed.

"Thanks, Mark."

Mark dropped a second unlabeled brown pill bottle between them on the table identical to the one Mike had left behind in some empty field ten miles north of Atlanta. He picked this one up, emptied the pills into his hand, carried them into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. When he returned the empty bottle was gone.

"You ever want to just shove them up his ass, one by one?" Mike asked, swallowing long from the can of soda as Mark nodded.

"Yeah, but his head's always in the way. Are you okay, Mike?"

"Ryan's all right. Can't we both be satisfied with that, for right now?"

"Maybe you can, but I can't. I'm worried about you. You're too much like him. Ryan isn't the only person in the world I give a shit about, contrary to popular belief. I know you've been pretty rattled over Alicia being sick. You're having the same trouble we all have, dealing with Laura while you're on the road. It's been a tough year for you. Be no shame if you weren't okay, my friend."

Mike's throat closed. It was high company he kept — sometimes, he didn't think he had the native emotional sophistication to handle it. Sometimes the grass felt a little too tall. He shook his head, unable for the moment to respond.

"Marta called a while ago. They're talking about inducing Alicia's labor. She'll probably have the baby tomorrow. They may have to take it Caesarean."

"If they'd done Mom that way last time, I'd have a normal little brother. Sometimes it's the best thing."

"I was born that way. My mom was Marta's size. I weighed almost ten pounds. I guess it can be better, sometimes. She's better, by the way. A little bit. Her blood pressure's dropped back down around normal again."

"Terrific. I love her, too, Mark. She always went to bat for me, even when nobody else really gave a shit."

"I know," Mark replied, and the embarrassment Mark felt over that almost flavored the air.

"I'm not quite sure why she did, but I'm glad enough of it. Laura's pretty close to her too, these days. Neither one of us has slept a night all week --on the phone at three o'clock every morning."

"Me and Marta, too. And Dave and Jill. And Murphy and Roddy..."

Mike laughed at the comparison.

After a great deal of dancing around it, Jeremy and Mark had signed a three-year contract with Roddy. It was their second. The first, for Jeremy and Mark, had been broken with much bitterness. But they were all older, wiser and more mature now and Mark — who had been bitterest of all — had finally relented.

Roddy's business — Basement Productions, Inc. — was a loose federation of agenting, management, packaging, promotions, booking and marketing professionals, all consolidated under one roof. The personal work, Roddy did for only two bands — Second Nature and A.P. It was what Roddy called a 'personal affliction' that he refused to trust either band to his more than competent agenting team rather than handle them himself. He needn't have done it — didn't need the money, and was successful in his own right as conductor of all the various and extremely assorted business that passed through BPI. He merely enjoyed it and wanted to. Mike felt inadequate to Roddy's attentions but like love and taste, there was absolutely no accounting for it. You took it and were grateful; usually, you were also successful.

"I take it there's a flight out for him booked already," Mike said.

"And for the rest of us — me, Dave, Jason. And... I had Mac buy a ticket for you too, Mike. Just a one-day round trip, I know you can't stay."

"Thank you, Mark. Thank you..."

It meant so much to Mike he hadn't even been able to bring himself to ask Roddy if he'd do it.

"Now, you gonna tell me where that came from?" Mark asked again, pushing back Mike's hair to touch the abrasion on his forehead.

"We were driving along this road outside Atlanta and I asked him for the pills he had on him. He spazzed out on me; wouldn't say anything. So I pulled the car over to give him hell and he lit out of it like a rabbit — took off running across this empty field. I took off after him, I'd almost caught up... and then I hyperventilated. Everything just shut down, I hit the dirt like a sack of beans. I thought I was... well, needless to say it scared the shit right outta me. I blacked out for a few minutes. When I came to, he had my head on his lap. He handed me the bottle and..." Mike stopped. What he'd done had been dangerous. If Jeremy had wanted to dump all the pills down his throat at that point there'd have been absolutely nothing Mike could have done to stop him.

"It's okay. If you know I don't need to know it don't tell me..."

"It's not that. Just realizing how stupid it was, doing what I did next. I... I emptied the bottle out in his hand. I can't believe I did it."

"Hey, if he threw them away after that, you got a check mate. He had to be made to do it. If you'd thrown them away for him, you'd be the one responsible for making sure they stayed gone. As a symbolic gesture, it was perfect. I think we both know how important symbolic gestures are for Ryan."

Mike slumped in the chair, relieved beyond belief.

"Good, I was afraid it had just been a stupid thing to do."

"I couldn't have sat there and done it, made him do it, but I'm glad you did. It's not a failing in you, or even in him. It's me. I'm so afraid he's going to kill himself, I'm going to lose him, I couldn't have forced him to do that."

Jeremy stirred — muttered in his sleep and rolled over on the bed. It seemed like normal sleep now, to Mike's awe.

"It's only been a few days at most, with the pills..." Mark said. "He's just tired in the normal way, mostly. Did he crash on you?"

"Of course he did. I carried him... a long way. Most of a mile. Think I messed my back up a little bit doing it..."

"I've got a tin of Tiger Balm. When he wakes up make him put some on your back."

"Get it now, I'll do it for myself, Bridges."

"See, you could do it for yourself. I could do it for you. But... Ryan will need to. And don't tell me you're not really dying to be a hundred miles away from the bastard right now, not even in the same room with him. I know you are. Noticed you had a big bruise on your shoulder, too. Do that taking your header?"

"Uh-uh. He punched me."

Mike thought the expression on Mark's face was admiration; he could think of no reason he deserved it and felt a little sick.

"Jesus, Mike — how far would you have gone with it, anyway?"

"I wouldn't have let him kill me..."

"I guess that's the only real difference between you and me, then..."

The words hadn't come easy. The film of tears in Mark's eyes never quite resolved to run down his cheekbones.

"I know. That's how it's supposed to be. And I don't envy you feeling that way. I don't even know if I'd have died for Pender. I doubt he'd have been comfortable if things had been that way. It would have implied too many things he didn't want to take from me, or want to give me."

"Neither of you was as messed up as Ryan to start with. Neither of you was as needy as we both were, when we met each other, as kids."

"I know. I'm not putting it down because I didn't feel that way. Sometimes it feels like we shortchanged that friendship, letting it stay the way it was. I could probably have been closer to Jerry... but I don't know if he could ever have been any closer to me and been comfortable with it."

"What about Laura?"

"If it would save her life, I'd have no trouble putting a gun to my head. I... haven't been able to say it to her yet, not really. It tears me up a little, to feel that and not be able to say it. But..."

"You're talking to the king of regrets over words left unspoken. I can say anything to Ryan, most things to you and not much less to Jason and Dave. But my jaw locks up when I'm with Marta. Because it's so important it paralyzes me..."

"What is it you can't say to her, Mark?"

"I can't seem to promise her she'll be the only one. She is, I know she will be but... I'm afraid to promise her. I'm afraid someday I can't keep it, and then she'll be gone..."

"It's none of my business, so tell me to piss off if you want, but —"

"We still haven't slept together. It's been almost nine months."

"I know how hard it is, sometimes, when there isn't a woman in your life. Unlike `Coma' over there, I do have a libido that gets hold of my reasoning mind once in a while. I was celibate for two years before Laura, but it was only two months after I met her. Nine months probably would have done both of us in. And Marta ain't chopped liver by any stretch of the imagination..."

"She's... like... how can I cover all this? She's extremely affectionate — she always wants to be touching me, sitting on my lap, you know. Some nights she comes up and crawls into bed with me. But I told her I couldn't make love to her until I was sure I could promise her she'd be the only one."

"Mark. Is she?"

"Of course she is."

Mike got up and went to the phone, picked it up and began punching numbers. It was six in the morning in Atlanta; same time zone in Cincinnati. Laura had been staying at Natureville with Marta and Alicia the past few weeks. She picked up the phone. The sound of her voice made his eyes want to leak.

"Hi, Mrs. It's me."

"Hello, Mike. I just got out of bed..."

"I know. I'm sorry to call so early but I had to talk to you. I'll be seeing you soon, I'm coming up with Mark and Jeremy. There's something I... absolutely had to say to you right now. It's been eating a hole in me that I could never get it across to you. If... god, every time I get this far with it, the words just run out of my head. If it took giving up my life to give you one more day I'd give it up. Do you understand what I'm saying, Laura? Do... do you believe me?"

She was silent for a time. Mike waited for a reproach for having hit her with something like it so early in the morning. Instead he heard her sniffle.

"My god, Mike. Of course I believe you. Are you okay?"

He blinked up at Jeremy's hollowed face to remind himself of his promise, closed his eyes and answered.

"I've had a rough night. It'll have to wait. Ryan's pretty shook over everything, I'm in Atlanta with him and Mark right now. He called me in Birmingham, I drove up here at midnight. Been up all night."

"I can understand he'd be pretty wired up by now. Is he okay?"

"No, but I think he will be. That's all I can say about it."

"What about you?"

"I need to be with you so much right now I almost resent having to talk to you on the phone. Every day feels like ten, except when I've got a guitar in my hands..."

He stopped. He'd promised himself he'd be okay for her on the phone. Alicia's problems were hers right now. She didn't need his as well.

"I'm sorry, Laura. I told myself I wouldn't dump on you right now, you don't need it from me. I'm sure you get plenty..."

"Mike Stretto. Since when does telling me you need me qualify as dumping?" she asked.

"You're great. Thank you for being there for me. I think Mark might talk to Marta, if she's up and around."

"She's up. Around is another story entirely. She's been putting on his clothes and lying wide awake in his bed, most nights."

"What about you?"

"I stay up and watch the videotapes Roddy had made from the show in Telluride, and Columbus and Chapel Hill. Doing things we won't discuss fully clothed on the phone at six in the morning..."

"As long as you're doing them alone. Let Marta know Mark's on the phone. I'll see you this afternoon. I love you."

"Love you, too."

"See you."

He held out the phone to Mark.

"Double dare. Come on. It's an important one, buddy. Don't let me push you... you should at least say `hello' and let her know you're okay. She and Laura are both pretty beat-up right now. That's really why I couldn't sit still and not talk to her..."

Mark said, "I know," as he reached for the phone. Mike got up and picked up the room key.

"Ryan got a spare pair of tennis shoes?"

"There's a pair in his duffel bag still in the box that doesn't quite fit him right for some reason. He paid fifty bucks, didn't just want to throw them out. He's never had the patience to try and break them in to suit him. Probably never will."

"I'm about half a size smaller, maybe they'll fit me better."

He pulled the box from the bag, dumped the shoes — laced, thank Allah — from the box and slipped his feet in. They felt absolutely great — he understood Jeremy's devotion immediately. The room key went into his pocket and he left for the pay phone he'd seen on the way in. He owed Joel and Janie at least the consideration of letting them know as soon as possible that he'd be leaving them for a day or two.

Before he reached the phone he was overtaken by the urge to run. It was utterly irrational — he was dead tired, sore from head to toe and emotionally whipped. The shoes — it was like the Ray Bradbury story about the shoes. What had they been called? Spring something. Mike jogged along the access road at a moderate pace watching the sunrise lighten the sky over his right shoulder. Of all things he remembered his father's phone call, the first night he'd been with Laura. How he'd reacted. It would be different now if Richard Stretto called him. He made a slow turn and continued to jog the mile back to the H.I. pay phone to place the call to Birmingham.

"Joel? It's Mike. Get you up?"

"Nah, I got to sleep so early last night, I was just lying here staring at the ceiling, expecting you to call. Everything all right?"

"Not as bad as it was before I got here. I'm going up to Cincinnati with Mark and Ryan, should be back in Birmingham tomorrow afternoon. They're going to induce Alicia's labor if it doesn't start today, they want me to go up too. It's been pretty rough on Laura, I think she needs to see me. If you want, I can have Roddy reserve you a ticket."

"No, that's okay. I've got some songs to work on."

"Great. I'll give you a call when I know something more."

"Fine. Take care, Mike."

"You, too."

When Mike slipped the key into the lock he heard Mark laughing. He opened the door and Mark sat upright on the bed.

"Well, I have to go, Marta. I'll be there in a few hours. Love you, too. 'Bye."

Jeremy shouted and sat up straight on the other bed as Mark hung up the phone. Neither Mark nor Mike looked at him.

"I can't believe how much better I feel," Mike said.

"Go for a run?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, I did. These damned shoes..."

Jeremy blinked wildly at both of them then yawned, stretched his arms over his head and relaxed against the headboard.

"I was gonna give those to you, A.P. How do you like 'em?" Jeremy asked, reaching for his cigarettes.

"I'm a convert, R.I. How you feeling?"

"Like I survived a plane crash. You?"

"Like I didn't. You beat the shit outta me."

"I know. I'm really sorry about that..."

"Okay. Well, tell him the news, Bridges."

Mark accepted a cigarette from Jeremy's hand as Mike dropped on the end of Jeremy's bed.

"Lia's doing a lot better. If her labor doesn't start today, they're going to induce it this evening. We're flying out in... three hours. At ten o'clock."

Jeremy closed his eyes and nodded.

"Who's we?"

"Well, Roddy bought five tickets — you, me, Dave, Jason and Mike."

"Jas won't want to go up. Offer it to Kim. I'd rather have him there, anyhow."

"Okay."

"How about if I have Jason drive my rental car back to Birmingham? Joel's gonna feel kind of left out if it's just him and Janie down there."

"Good idea," Jeremy nodded. "They get along pretty well, the two of them. Wonder if it bothers Sean at all..."

"I think Jason and Sean's friendship kind of outgrew itself. It's a little bit sad, but it happens, sometimes..." Mark said.

"Not in my lifetime it doesn't," Jeremy said, reaching across to the other bed to nudge Mark's knee. "Are you okay, Bridges?"

"I will be, Ryan. Marta and I are going to get married on the next decent break... we finally got that last brick down."

"You finally talked some sense into him!" Jeremy laughed, leaning forward to shove Mike's shoulder — his right, which was nearest. Mike clamped down on the scream just too late. Some of it leaked out. Jeremy's back slapped against the veneered headboard.

"Mike? What is it?" Mark insisted.

"Oh, shit... Mike, I forgot. I'm sorry..." Jeremy groaned, leaning forward again. "Maybe I oughtta call Morse, get you in there and have him look at that while we're home."

"I'm okay..." Mike protested.

"Call him," Jeremy said, picking up the handset and holding it out toward Mark.

"No, come on... don't do it, Bridges."

"Shirt off..." Mark directed, dropping the phone back in the cradle.

"Aw, now Bridges — I like you and all but..."

"Stop it, Mike. I'm serious."

Mike scowled at Mark; didn't move to take off the sweat shirt.

"Okay, you stubborn son of a bitch -- gimme my shirt back," Jeremy said.

Mike felt his face heat up. He stared at his feet and pulled the shirt off over his head. The sound Jeremy made sounded like the one Mike had made when Jeremy had hit him. He blinked up at Mark.

"I hope you're satisfied, Bridges. I didn't have any intention of putting Ryan through this, you son of a bitch. Are you happy now?"

"Deja vù..." Jeremy said quietly, touching the bridge of his nose. Mike's head snapped around and he glared at Jeremy, too.

"This — you, too, you bastard. You made me show you this. I wasn't gonna put you through it. Either one of you..."

Mike glanced down at the shoulder and was so shocked his eyes locked on it. It was black and blue all around the pinion of the joint. It hadn't hurt until he saw it; now it felt like he'd been whacked by a brick falling from twenty feet over his head. Or like the time the jack had cut loose on him and the Corvette's front bumper had pinned his shoulder to the pavement for a fraction of a second before he could roll completely out of the way.

"Holy shit, Jeremy..." he whispered. "Where'd you hide the sledge hammer?"

The sick feeling returned. Along with a dose of vertigo. And boy was he tired.

"Oh-oh..." he heard as Mark moved forward. The floor got closer then farther away again as Mark shoved him backward; he fell across Jeremy's shins to watch the ceiling pulse over his head.

"Neither one of you touches me or I punch the living shit outta you..." he said, laughing. It didn't sound like a laugh he'd have wanted to hear out of anyone else. Jeremy sat up and leaned forward to stare down into Mike's eyes.

"We screwed up. Sorry..." was all he said.

"Yeah, I'll say you did. Couldn't leave well enough alone, either one of you. Well, you've reduced me to paralysis, between the two of you..."

""Please don't punch the shit out of me for this..." Jeremy asked, holding Mike's head up as he slipped his legs out from under Mike's shoulders. "Is it okay if we move you up on the bed?"

"I didn't think you heard me..." Mike sighed, pushing himself back upright. The room wobbled. He ignored it. He reached for the sweat shirt and pulled it back on. He knew his shoulder only looked gory and hurt a lot — he had complete motion in it; wasn't anything serious or he wouldn't have been able to have carried Jeremy back to the car.

"Listen, pal — I toted your ass almost a mile after you did this to me. I know nothing's really wrong with it."

Jeremy blinked at Mike; turned to Mark looking amazed. It wasn't irony or sarcasm — he really seemed surprised.

"You're trying to remember where you left your car keys, aren't you... you're actually thinking about just going out and getting in the car to head back for Birmingham."

When Mike turned to glare at him Jeremy seemed even more surprised. It wasn't a big feeling, but he derived a certain small amount of satisfaction from seeing Jeremy look intimidated for once.

"Haven't you done enough to all of us for one night? I'll have to start calling you Attitude Problem."

"Okay. I'll call you `Righteous Indignation'. Stop copping an attitude, Mike. I know I hurt you bad. I know saying I'm sorry doesn't fix it. But you have to let me be sorry, whether that fixes it or not. You have to -- no, sorry again, bad choice of words. I need you to let me do what I'm trying to do, Mike. Please."

Mark got up from the other bed and closed a hand gently but firmly over Mike's elbow. Mike overcame, with some difficulty, the urge to jerk his arm out of Mark's grasp.

"I'm sorry too, okay? I didn't mean to... to jerk you around like that. Come on, I just want you to sit over here where you can lean your back against the wall, that's all. Come on..."

Mike fell forward again until his head rested on Mark's shoulder. The tone of Mark's voice had knocked all the anger out of his bones.

"Uh... give me a couple seconds, okay?"

"Okay. Okay..."

Mark held his breath while Mike leaned, unable for the moment to pull himself back upright.

"Does sitting like that hurt?" Jeremy asked.

"Uh-uh..."

Mark shifted as Jeremy took the can of analgesic ointment from the drawer in the night stand. Mike saw him open the tin, scoop his fingers through and close it. Jeremy raised the sweat shirt and smeared the cold, slightly oily balm over his back. He tensed up involuntarily when the cold touched his skin. Jeremy started and jumped back.

"Sorry, didn't realize it was that cold. I didn't think about it..."

He warmed the rest between his palms before touching Mike again. Mike's spine finally, slowly relaxed.

"I'd never have believed it if you told me, but I'd swear he's an even tougher case than you are, Ryan..." Mike heard Mark say.

"Shut up, Mark. I never appreciate being talked over the top of, and neither do you," Jeremy warned.

"Go ahead. You guys are obviously just gonna do whatever the hell you please, no matter what I say..." Mike laughed, but he choked on it. "God that hurts."

"I know it does. Can I do your shoulder too, Amigo?" Jeremy asked, wiping his hands on the tail of the shirt.

"If I say `no' are you just gonna do it anyway?" Mike asked, lifting his head to look Jeremy in the eyes again. Jeremy grimaced, closed his eyes and shook his head.

"No. I'm sorry..."

He shrugged and turned completely away. Mike sat up and removed the shirt.

"Okay. You can go ahead and do it then..." he nodded, pulling his hair to the left side. "As long as I know you're not going to force me to let you do it, and I know you're not doing it because you feel like you have to."

Jeremy smiled briefly and picked up the tin again.

"Bridges is right," he said, voice rough. "You really are a tougher case than I am."

"I'm what my ma used to call stupid with pride. I know..."

He cringed when Jeremy reached toward the shoulder; flinched when he was touched. Jeremy blinked at him; Mike met his eye. There might have been the danger of Mike's molar fillings welding together. Jeremy shook his head then nodded.

"Tell me about it. Like I never been there..." he grinned. "You can really only stand to let down with the girls around."

"I don't even do that very well."

Mark handed him two coated tablets and the rest of his can of Coke.

"Motrin," Mark said. "Mike, I really am sorry. I know it sucks to be railroaded..."

Mike dropped one of the pills in his mouth and washed it down; followed with the second. Jeremy's fingers prodded the bruise and he choked on the pill. No more! a voice screamed in his head. I feel bad enough already! No more!

"What are you doing?" he croaked, forcing himself to swallow the second pill before it ended up in his lungs.

"Checking your collarbone to make sure I didn't break it."

"I can move my arm, nothing's broken."

"You can break your collarbone and still be able to move your arm..." Jeremy said as he continued prodding. Mike couldn't remember anything that had hurt more in his life. He was fairly sure something had, at some point, but what it might have been was lost in this pain. Having expected it he was able to grit his teeth and sit still. Mark sat watching him, wide-eyed.

"My god, you can really take it, can't you..."

"Well... yeah," Mike said. "When I'm expecting it I can. You surprise me I'm gonna jump."

"You wouldn't have let either one of us patch you up if we'd told you ahead of time and you know it..." Jeremy said, rising from the bed. "You can take this one, I have to get something in my stomach."

"Ryan, I have to ask you this. Please, for Christ's sake tell me I didn't waste the effort. Tell me you won't go back to doing that..."

Jeremy sat back down beside him.

"Okay. Getting off is harder for me than staying off is. You got me there. I can stay there. First few days is always a bitch but... hell, if I eat enough sugar and drink enough coffee, it's almost the same."

"Like you don't do enough of that already?" Mark insisted. "We'll bring you back something to eat if you want, Stretto."

"Probably a good idea. I don't really care what it is."

"Want me to have Jason come over and sit with you?"

"Nah — but I'd like to talk to Kim if he's up and around. He's so laid-back I'd probably fall dead asleep on him."