They both turn and look at me.
“Junior!” Hen says.
She looks more surprised than Terrance. There are tears in her eyes that I couldn’t see from the hole in the bathroom.
I saw you, I say. I saw him. I know what you’re trying to do.
I’m pointing a finger at Terrance. It’s trembling.
This isn’t okay. You’ve taken this too . . .
I want to say far, but can’t get the word out. I feel a knot in my stomach.
“You don’t look so good, Junior,” Terrance says.
You’re a bad man, I say.
My legs quiver. It’s not right. I don’t feel right.
“We’re going to talk about everything,” he says. “But now you need to calm down.”
I try to take another step toward Terrance but stumble and have to steady myself against the wall. Hen puts a hand to her face. Terrance takes a cautious step in my direction.
“Those pills in your system,” he says. “They’re slowing you down.”
Painkillers, I say. You said they were painkillers.
He picks up his screen, types something into it, holds it up, takes a photo.
“Junior, please,” Hen says.
I’m not waiting until Friday, I say.
My speech is coming out slower than I want it to.
I don’t care anymore. I won’t do this. You said Friday, but I won’t let it happen. I’m not going to the . . . Installation.
I look at Hen. She doesn’t appear scared or angry, but concerned.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he says, setting his screen down on the bed. “It’s time for me to tell you. There is no Friday. And there is no Installation. At least not for you, Junior.”
It’s the last thing I hear before I collapse onto the floor.