Three days passed, and John didn’t call back. After a week, Zack stopped snatching up his phone every time it rang.

It was foolish of him to get his hopes up. He knew better than that. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment, though. John had seemed different from the others, at least at first. Zack’s frustration was compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had a single promising client that week. Nothing but mouth-breathers, prank callers, and men who were clearly trying to get off before their wives came home.

Zack was halfway through his shift on the eighth John-free day when he started to worry he was going to fall asleep at his desk. He’d just gotten off the phone with a man who’d barely managed to get through introductions before coming in his pants, and Zack was feeling especially bitter. He checked the queue to see if there were any random callers who hadn’t yet been assigned to an operator. It was empty for what felt like the first time in days. He breathed a long sigh of relief.

His thoughts drifted to John for what must have been the hundredth time. Dealing with his usual clients after his call with John was like chasing Dom Pérignon with stale beer. Part of him knew they weren’t any worse than usual, but that part was getting harder and harder to listen to. Zack sighed and rested his face in his hands and muttered, “I’m an idiot.”

“I agree, but why?” a voice asked.

Zack whipped around so fast his neck cracked. Alexa was standing by his desk.

“No reason,” he bleated. “I’m just thinking out loud. It’s been a rough week.”

“I noticed,” Alexa said. “Or rather, Colette noticed. She told me earlier you had a decent call last week, but now you can’t keep them on the line to pay your rent. Literally.” Alexa took a seat on the edge of his desk.

Zack scowled. “I love it when Colette takes it upon herself to inform everyone of my progress.”

Alexa fiddled with a cigarette tucked behind her ear. “I’m pretty sure she only told me. Maybe she thinks I can motivate you.” She was wearing a blue hoodie and a bright-pink tutu. She’d swept her hair up into a cute topknot. Zack thought she looked like cotton candy in human form.

“I don’t need motivation. I’m just having an off week.”

Alexa gave him an appraising look. “You say that, and yet at the beginning of the week you showed up early for work. You’ve never done that before. Plus, every time your phone rang, you got this goofy, hopeful look on your face.”

“Your point?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, I thought maybe you were waiting for that client to call back.”

“Absolutely not,” Zack said in a flat tone. “Stop analyzing me. It’s annoying.”

“Right, and that wasn’t defensive at all.”

Zack pretended not to notice the knowing look she gave him. He absorbed himself in the task of viciously stabbing an eraser on his desk with a bent paper clip.

“All right,” Alexa said after a moment. “I was hoping you were ready to dish, but I can wait.” She rose to her feet and slid her hands into her pockets. “Let me know if you want to grab a drink later. You seem like you could use it.”

Zack felt a twinge of remorse and forced himself to smile. “Okay, I will. Now get back to work, you slacker.”

Alexa sauntered off in the direction of her desk, and Zack scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He needed to make some less perceptive friends. Or put up a curtain to block Alexa’s view of his cubicle.

Over the course of the next hour, Zack took one more client, who did absolutely nothing to improve Zack’s mood. He sounded like air being let out of a balloon and insisted on calling him “Daddy’s Little Slut.” Zack decided that was the Very Last Straw Ever and asked to go home early. Colette mercifully agreed.

The trip from Murmur Inc. in Pasadena to his apartment in Koreatown was one Zack could make in his sleep, he’d done it so many times. He hopped on the Gold Line from Del Mar to Union Station, changed over to the Purple, and then took that all the way to the Wilshire/Vermont stop. From there, he walked the last twenty minutes to his building on Eighth Street.

It was a hot day, but there was a decent breeze that carried the scent of spices from the many restaurants dotting the streets. It smelled like curry and too many bodies twenty-four hours a day. In the winter, cinnamon and an odd aroma like rusted metal made every breath burn his nostrils. Zack couldn’t say why, but he loved it. There was something so alive about it. Even if he didn’t set foot there for twenty years, he would know the area the second he smelled it, like a sensory fingerprint on his brain.

As Zack ambled home, he passed gas stations with boarded-up windows, bail bond agencies, and one-room churches. Everything was small and stained with age, unlike the touristy parts of the city. Most of the buildings were a dirty tan, with iron bars covering the windows. The biggest exception was Eddy’s Market, a combination produce stand and convenience store. Its cheerful green awning was the only dot of color on the whole block. Zack bought most of his groceries there when he actually bothered to cook.

After passing Eddy’s, it was just another two blocks to his place. When Zack spotted his building, a sense of ease settled over him. Most people would call him crazy for being comforted by the sight of it. The building was squat and boxy, with small windows like sad eyes in a sagging face. The open breezeways between the units meant bugs were plentiful and ubiquitous, attracted by the easy shelter. Zack lived on the first floor, which was perfect for moving furniture but also for getting robbed. He’d had to replace his television twice in the past year, and his Xbox was living with his friend Lee until he moved to a nicer neighborhood. If that ever actually happened.

But Zack was strangely attached to the place. Rent was the first bill he’d paid with his own money when he left for college. Even after he’d dropped out, he’d continued to live there.

Zack trudged up to the black gate surrounding the building. He waved to a middle-aged Dominican woman who was hanging laundry out of a second-story window. “Hey, Mrs. Alvarez!”

The woman finished clipping a blouse to the line that stretched between the buildings and waved back. “Hey, Zack! Ziggy and Marilyn are waiting for you.”

“Thank you!”

Zack slipped through the gate and hurried along a thin walkway. It snaked from one apartment to the next before widening into a dilapidated parking lot in the back. Weeds crept up through huge cracks in the pavement and clung to the chain-link fence surrounding it. It looked like a scene out of a postapocalyptic film: the plants had begun to reclaim the earth.

A man with skin so dark it matched the oil smudges on his white shirt was squatting next to a patch of dirt. He was tending to a few fruitless tomato plants with a spade. They fit the definition of a vegetable garden in only the loosest sense, but they were clearly well cared for.

“Hey, Mr. Alvarez,” Zack greeted him as he approached. “How was your day?”

“Not bad, son,” the man replied. He pushed himself into a standing position with a weary groan. “Your boy here missed you.”

As he spoke, a streak of white flashed past him and appeared at Zack’s feet.

“Whoa, there, Ziggy.” Zack laughed as the white shepherd jumped on him. His paws easily reached Zack’s narrow hips. Zack petted as much snowy fur as he could reach and scratched behind his ears. Ziggy’s whole body reverberated with the force of his wagging tail. “Easy there, boy. I was only at work, same as always. It’s like you think you’re never going to see me again every time I leave.”

“A stray like him must think that’s a possibility,” Mr. Alvarez said, watching Zack with keen black eyes.

Zack nodded. “Yeah, but he and I are in it for the long haul. Aren’t we, boy?”

Ziggy barked. Zack kissed his head, making obnoxious smooching noises until Mr. Alvarez snorted.

“I got good news for you, son.”

“Is it about the thermostat?”

Mr. Alvarez nodded. “It’s stuck, just like I thought. Easy fix, and then Marilyn won’t overheat anymore.”

“All right!” He pumped a fist in the air. “You are a genius, Mr. Alvarez! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d let that beautiful machine over there rot, is what you’d do.” Mr. Alvarez gestured at a large, sheet-covered lump in the corner of the lot. The bulk of it was obscured by moldy boxes and heaps of scrap metal.

“I don’t deserve her,” he agreed, moving toward the sheet and lifting it just enough to expose a flash of cherry-red paint. “Marilyn’s far too good for me. She should find herself a new, richer boyfriend. One who can afford to feed her all the premium gas and oil she wants.”

Mr. Alvarez rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she’d settle for being taken out on the town every now and then.”

Zack dropped the sheet and shrugged. “I would, but I’m too afraid to even take her off blocks. If we didn’t have all this junk piled up back here, she’d have been stripped down to the frame by now. It’s better to keep her looking like she’s already been scrapped.”

“I know, but cars are meant to be driven, not to sit in backyards or on showroom floors. Besides, eventually the other neighbors are going to want to put something useful back here. Like a kiddie pool or a barbecue pit.”

“After the week I had, I vote for a noose.”

Mr. Alvarez pulled a rag out of the pocket of his overalls. His fingers shook so badly he almost dropped it. Zack tried not to stare, but Mr. Alvarez spotted him.

He gave Zack a thin smile. “No need to look so concerned. The sclerosis hasn’t gotten the best of me yet.”

Zack hesitated and then asked, “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “About as well as someone in my condition can expect.”

Zack winced and looked at his feet. “I thought you were still in remission, though?”

“I am, but who knows how long that’ll last. Days? Years? For all I’m paying those doctors, they don’t really tell me anything.”

Zack nudged a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “I’m sorry.”

To Zack’s surprise, Mr. Alvarez chuckled. “Don’t act so glum. Happens to us all eventually. At least you gave me a fine last project to work on before the wife makes me take up bird watching or something.” He made a sour face and then began walking toward their building. “I swear, the day they forced me to retire, it’s like she got it in her head that a breeze could put me in the ground. I thought retiring was supposed to be about having time for fun again.”

Zack whistled for Ziggy, then jogged after Mr. Alvarez. “I don’t think you’re giving Mrs. Alvarez enough credit. I started talking to her about craft beer the other day. Next thing I knew, she was googling home brewing.”

“Atta boy.” Mr. Alvarez clapped him on the back. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re like the son I never had?”

They walked together until they reached the staircase leading to the second floor. Zack pretended to fiddle with his keys until Mr. Alvarez made it up the first flight. When he was no longer visible, Zack approached apartment 112C and slid his key into the lock. Opening the door required a combination of pulling the handle and jamming his foot against the bottom of the frame. He’d done it so many times, it was second nature. He shoved the door open a second later, ignoring the worrisome cracking sound it made. Ziggy bounded past him into the apartment. Before Zack had even closed the door behind them, Ziggy had curled up in Zack’s spot on the gray, squishy couch by the far wall.

“Welcome home, boy,” Zack said, tossing his keys onto a small table that was overflowing with junk. He swore he was going to clear it off one of these days, but he never did. He had no real reason to. He seldom entertained, and he ate his meals sitting on the couch. What little furniture he did have only kept him from throwing his possessions directly onto the ground. Because that, he’d decided, was too classless even for him.

Zack pulled his shoes off and left them by the door. The carpet was a dingy taupe color that seemed to cultivate dirt by sheer force of will. He flipped on a light switch, and the ceiling fan hummed with life. The single bulb in its glass globe cast waxen light on the room. He yanked his jacket off next and nearly knocked a framed print of Dali’s The Hallucinogenic Toreador off the wall. A few other posters dotted the room—one for Call of Duty, another for Lord of the Rings, and one for Fight Club that Zack felt completed his “single guy living alone” starter kit.

The framed art had been a gift from his older sister. She’d called it an attempt to “class up the joint.” The idea still made Zack laugh years later.

“You,” he pointed at his dog, “are the only good thing about this place.”

Ziggy cocked his head to the side and let his long, pink tongue loll out of his mouth.

“Exactly.” He made his way over to the kitchen. A four-burner stove, a toaster, a coffeepot, and an olive-green refrigerator from the sixties were all that filled the cramped space. Yellowed wallpaper printed with what might have been roses covered the walls. Zack checked Ziggy’s food and water bowls and then turned to the fridge. It was making a disconcerting whining noise, and when Zack pulled it open, he was hit by a blast of icy air.

“Shit,” he muttered. He reached for a knob at the bottom and twisted it a fraction of a degree to the left. Any more, and when he opened it the next morning, he’d discover a magical portal to the Sahara Desert. Zack pulled a half-frozen beer from the top shelf. He twisted off the cap and tossed it in a nearby trash can before heading back into the living room.

Ziggy moved dutifully over as soon as Zack made it clear he was going to sit whether the dog was there or not. Ziggy pressed his cold nose into Zack’s armpit.

“Weirdo,” Zack said, ruffling the dog’s long fur. He set his beer down on the coffee table and picked up the remote. He pressed the power button and watched the TV flicker to life. It was a square, ancient-looking thing reminiscent of an age before widescreens and HD. After the loss of his first few TVs, he’d stopped shelling out for the good stuff. He reached for his beer, took a sip, and began flipping through channels.

“Ah, the joys of a decent cable package,” he said.

Ziggy nudged him and made a whining noise.

“I know, I know,” Zack cooed. “You think I let the hot cable guy talk me into upgrading, but this is the only nice thing we own. A man needs his entertainment after a long day of listening to strange men masturbate.”

Ziggy gave him a look that Zack swore was affronted.

“You want me to spend all our money on chew toys, don’t you?”

Ziggy barked.

“I knew it.”

Zack’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He set his beer down again and dug the phone out of his jeans. The caller ID read Mom.

Zack answered, “Hey, good timing. I just got home.”

“Hi, Zack, it’s Mom.”

“I know, Mom. Remember caller ID? We talked about caller ID.”

“Yes, I remember. Listen, sweetie, are you coming to dinner this Sunday?”

Zack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be there, just like I said I would be. I’d tell you if my plans had changed.”

“Well, forgive me for liking to know ahead of time how many mouths I’m going to have to feed.”

Zack could perfectly picture his mother. She always called people from an old-fashioned, wall-mounted phone in her kitchen. Her hair—the same dark shade as Zack’s—would be tied back with a red bandana. She’d have a white apron thrown over her clothes and a hand perched on her hip. Maybe even a smudge of flour on her swarthy, freckled cheek. He’d seen her adopt that pose thousands of times throughout his childhood and well into his adult life. It was her well-meant-scolding pose.

“All right, Mom, I promise I’ll be there. What are we having?”

“Spaghetti.”

“But Mom,” Zack sputtered, “that’s too risky! We only have spaghetti every other time we get together!”

Mom laughed. “I know, I know. Your father keeps buying meatballs by the dozen. What am I supposed to do?”

“Stop taking him to IKEA for starters. Isn’t it against our heritage to buy meatballs from anywhere but Italy?”

There was a pause, and Zack got the sense that his mother had shrugged. “He likes them. I like them. Everybody likes them. Besides, it’s my heritage. Your father just married into it. The sauce is Nana Gemma’s recipe, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll see you Sunday, then. Seven?”

“Sharp. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Zack hung up and returned the phone to his pocket.

Not even two minutes later, it buzzed again. Slightly bewildered, Zack pulled it out. This time, the caller ID read “Not Mom.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Zack muttered, sliding the lock screen to answer. “Hey, Dad. I just got off the phone with Mom.”

“Hey, Zack, it’s Dad.”

Zack facepalmed. “I’m well aware of that. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just calling to give you a heads-up about this Sunday.”

“Yeah, Mom already told me she expects me to be there.”

“She doesn’t just expect it, Zack. She’s counting on it.”

“Oh no,” Zack wheezed as frosty realization engulfed him. “What has Mom got planned this time? Is it a surprise party?”

“Your birthday isn’t until January.”

“Exactly! I’d never see it coming!”

Zack heard a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line.

“Well, what is it, then? Is she marrying me off into some rich European family in exchange for land and my weight in gold?”

“If she were, I wouldn’t be warning you. I’d be signing the paperwork and packing up your room.”

“You know you don’t have to keep it how it was. I’m not coming back.”

“Try telling your mother that. She still thinks you’re going to go back to school.”

Zack made a rude noise.

“Anyway, your mother thinks you need more direction in your life. And she intends to tell you that. Your sister is going to be there as well.”

Zack nearly choked on his beer. “She made Bianca fly in? What is this, an intervention?”

“Bianca was going to be in town anyway, but I think Mom plans to capitalize on the situation. I just wanted to warn you so you’d have a chance to prepare yourself. Mom means well, and I don’t want you flying off the handle like you usually do when people start telling you things you don’t want to hear.”

Zack chose to ignore that and asked, “Is anyone else going to be there?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Wonderful. An audience. My own family has plans to ambush me, and I’m supposed to just sit there and take it.”

“No one is going to ambush you. Well, Mom is, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll grin and bear it. It’s about time you learned to face things like an adult.”

“How is being fake the same thing as being an adult?”

“Maybe you’ll understand one day when you finally grow up.”

Zack flirted with the idea of hanging up on him. Instead, he reined in his temper and responded in a shadow of a civil tone. “You think the answer to everything is to nod and smile like nothing’s wrong.”

“Well, it’s a sight more helpful than getting defensive. I thought I taught you better manners than that. You haven’t even thanked me for calling to warn you. Besides, there’s nothing to be done about it, so you might as well accept it. I’ll see you Sunday. And make sure you wear something nice. Not those black rags you usually have on. Your sister hasn’t seen you in months.”

“Thanks for the call, Dad,” Zack gushed with fake enthusiasm. “See you Sunday!” He stabbed the End Call button and then pulled Ziggy into his lap. He scratched him vigorously behind the ears until his frustration had ebbed and his dog was a happy puddle.

Zack sighed and let his head fall back onto the couch. “I know young men are supposed to have issues with their fathers, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Ziggy growled.

“I agree.”

Zack watched a few hours of mindless TV, wolfed down some leftovers, and took Ziggy out before heading to bed. His room was as Spartan as the rest of the apartment: his nightstand and small dresser didn’t match, and his bed—it was a queen, at least—didn’t have a headboard. He had sprung for some nice sheets, though. They were a silky red color that injected a bit of life into the beige walls and faded carpet. Zack kept framed pictures of his loved ones on every available surface. His sister and her long-term boyfriend beamed at him from the top of his battered dresser. Mom and Dad smiled from the windowsill.

“So looking forward to seeing you, sis,” Zack said to the photo, his tone laden with sarcasm. “Or at least I would be if our parents would give me the chance.”

His laptop was lying on top of his duvet like always, but he moved it to the nightstand without turning it on. He wasn’t in the mood for the internet right now.

Zack changed into a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and then climbed into bed, patting the blankets until Ziggy jumped up after him. He plugged in his phone, clicked out the overhead light, and settled on his back. Tomorrow was Friday, but that meant a late night for a PSO. Weekends were their busiest time. Everyone was looking for something (or someone) to do. Maybe he’d get an interesting new client or a strange request he could gossip about with Alexa.

He knew who he was really hoping to get a call from, however. His thoughts drifted to John for the umpteenth time.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about him?” he asked his darkened room.

Ziggy whined but otherwise failed to offer any enlightenment. Zack rolled onto his side and forced himself to think about nothing until he fell into a fitful sleep.

He woke up early the next day, much earlier than was necessary considering his shift started at noon. He felt no more refreshed than he had the night before. He took his time making a pot of strong coffee and a couple of eggs. He didn’t usually cook, more out of laziness than a lack of skill, but he wanted to keep himself busy so he wouldn’t think about how badly he didn’t want to go to work. If he thought about it, he’d call out, and Colette would have kittens.

When he was finished with breakfast, he washed his plate and set it on a dish towel to dry. Then he brushed his hair and teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, and even flossed. When he’d exhausted every possible time-wasting avenue at his disposal, he finally gave in and got dressed for work. He threw on his usual attire of jeans and a black T-shirt before slipping his wallet, phone, and keys into his back pocket and heading for the door.

Zack let Ziggy into the backyard like he did every day. It was one of the things that made his apartment complex so convenient, even if it was a dump. He didn’t have to worry about Ziggy being cooped up inside all day, and his neighbors let the dog romp undisturbed through the overgrown grass. Zack checked the water dish he kept under the awning, then strolled off in the direction of the bus stop, pausing only to wave at Mrs. Alvarez as she painstakingly dragged in the laundry she’d hung out the day before.

His trip to work was uneventful, but the moment he walked into the office, he was accosted by Alexa.

“Wow, I feel special,” Zack joked. “You almost never greet me at the door.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Alexa said. Her brown eyes flashed with mischief. “I just had the funniest request. I wanted to tell you about it before you have to call your client.”

“Tell me everything,” Zack responded with glee, but then the rest of what Alexa had said caught up with him. “Wait, what client?”

“I took a call a few minutes ago that was meant for you, or rather ‘Wesley.’ I left a Murmur on your desk with the details. I offered to transfer him to someone who was free, but he insisted on talking to you.”

Zack’s heart didn’t skip so much as play hopscotch on his rib cage.

“Oh?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. “Was it one of my regulars?”

“Not as far as I know. I didn’t recognize his name. It was super generic.”

“A generic name?” Zack kept his tone conversational. “Like Chris or Mike or . . . John?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Zack forced his face to stay blank even as his stomach dropped out through his feet. “You don’t happen to remember his exact name, do you?”

Alexa tapped her chin with a neon-green fingernail. “Can’t say I do. Why? Are you expecting someone?”

“No, no,” Zack said too quickly, “I was just wondering. I mean, there was this one client I hoped would call back, but it’s probably not him.”

Alexa looked at him askance. “You all right there, Sparky?”

“Yeah,” Zack replied. “I’m just a little hungover.”

Alexa let his flimsy excuse slide. “Well, you look pale and, honestly, a bit deranged. You should sit down. I’ll tell you about my client later.”

“Right,” Zack said, forcing a smile. “Catch you in a bit.”

He walked stiffly toward his desk, berating himself. He wasn’t the world’s greatest liar, but he wasn’t usually that bad. There was no reason for him to freak out. John was one of the most common names out there. Generic, as Alexa had put it. Besides, if a client intended to call back, they typically did so right away. The chances of converting a new client into a regular after a whole week had passed were supermodel slim.

No matter how many times Zack repeated this, his nerves still felt like they were skittering across ice. The second he reached his desk, he snatched up the Murmur Alexa had left. Shit. It just had a connection number and a callback time. No help at all.

He fired up his computer and jiggled his leg as he waited for the processor to boot. The welcome screen loaded with agonizing slowness, followed by his desktop. He clicked on the program they used to log calls, all but crawling out of his skin with impatience.

Once it loaded, he clocked in and signaled to the program that he wanted to make a call. When it had connected to his phone line and marked him as Busy, he finally picked up the phone.

He held the receiver to his ear, listening to the mindless buzz of the dial tone. He punched in the connection number Alexa had left and forced himself to breathe evenly. The call picked up and switched him over to the correct line. Then the phone rang once, twice, three times.

On the fourth ring, Zack heard a click and a muffled greeting. Too muffled for him to recognize the voice.

He floundered for a second before pulling himself together enough to rasp, “Hello. My name’s Wesley. I’m here to make all your dreams come true.”

He winced. He sounded awful. As he waited for a response, he was nearly deafened by the sound of his own pulse throbbing in his ears.

Then a smooth, rumbling voice said, “Hello, Darkling.”