THE REAL GENIUS of infrastructure wasn’t that roads, highways, and bridges linked every rural town, large city, and all three coasts in North America; it was that every thirty miles along these byways there were fast-food oases. Sometimes they were connected to gas stations; sometimes fireworks stands had been set up in their parking lots; but they were always ready to dispense greasy burgers, soggy fries, and watered-down soft drinks to weary travelers who needed a break from driving before highway boredom tempted them to slam their cars into oncoming traffic. Upon crossing the Illinois-Indiana border, Dennis spotted a sign advertising the perfect amalgam of low-quality food and affordability: the Burt’s Big Beef “Five for Five Dollars” special. Most Burt’s Big Beefs were located between liquor stores and roadside strip clubs, but this one was across the highway from an outlet mall that served a dual retail function—discounted clothes by day and crystal meth deals by night.

Dennis brought the tray of five roast beef sandwiches to their table.

After their various Chicago adventures, Harry, Timothy, and Dennis had stayed the night at the hotel. When Harry returned from his meeting, he’d found Dennis in the bar eating a salad and drinking a large diet cola. Neither spoke about their afternoons, failure and renewal floating over the table between them.

Later that evening, Timothy had texted saying he was back from Amber’s and was watching the tournament in the convention center. Harry and Dennis found him seated with two teenagers who he introduced as his teammates, Stan “The Savage One” Desmond and David “Battleship Dick” Gilbert. Also sitting with them were Timothy’s and Amber’s replacements.

Stan and David took one look at Dennis and assumed if anyone was going to buy them beer, it would be the sweaty guy who kept looking at the beer stand as though it were an ex-girlfriend. But Dennis refused. Had he felt like being emotionally vulnerable with a pair of high schoolers, he would have said drinking had given him nothing but intense cravings, a beer gut, and the inability to process complex emotions. Instead, he just told them to fuck off.

Taking in the first couple of rounds of the tournament and the dizzying blend of dance music and digitized violence, Harry had expected Timothy to be sad. Playing in a video game tournament was something Timothy had been preparing for his entire life. But Harry had been relieved to see Timothy laughing with his teammates, analyzing the competitors’ strategies, cheering for his teammates when they competed, and talking about his team’s chances for next year.

After the preliminary rounds had ended, the three men retired to their rooms for the night, dreaming of and dreading everything they’d have to do when they returned to Bloomington the next morning.

“Pass the special sauce,” Dennis said to a table loaded with curly fries, large soft drinks, condiment packets, and napkins. “So, Tim, when are you gonna see that woman again?”

“Next week,” Timothy said. “I have some things I have to do at home first.”

“Like tell your wife what’s up?” Dennis chuckled.

He nodded. “Deborah and I need to have a difficult talk. But right now, my plan is to move out when we get back.”

Outside the restaurant, kids frolicked in a ball pit. They chucked plastic balls at each other as though they were ballistic missiles. They dunked each other, then laughed as only kids who’ve spent half an hour beating each other up can laugh.

“If you need somewhere to stay, you can crash at my place,” Dennis said.

“Really?” Timothy asked.

“Why not? I have the space. I have three bedrooms I’m not using and a guesthouse over the garage. You can always come and stay with me too, Harry, if Sarah ever gets sick of you.”

The kids pulled themselves from the ball pit and ran into Burt’s Big Beef, giggling as they went. Their parents corralled them and tried to get them to eat.

“That’s very generous,” Harry said. “But I think Amanda might require some personal space for a while, at least some space from me. Although your basement might prove to be the ideal location to produce my videos.”

“You’re going digital?” Timothy asked Harry.

“My brief consultation with Dr. Peterson convinced me that courting the approval of the scientific establishment is not an effective way to get Omnicalcumetry to the public. Instead, I’m going to appeal to the people directly. I’ve decided to self-publish my book and produce some supplemental videos. The labor will be greater, but I think this is the best strategy for introducing Omnicalcumetry to the world.”

“I’ll subscribe to your channel.” Dennis dipped a fry in ketchup. A red glob dripped onto the tray. He took another fry and wiped the ketchup up with it. “But maybe we should stay out of the basement for a while.”

“My stratagem is already having an effect. I have yet to post a single video, and I already have my first subscriber.”

The five roast beef sandwiches sat on the tray, wrapped in foil.

“How are we going to divide these sandwiches?” Timothy asked.

“I could apply Omnicalcumetry to this problem and figure out exactly how many grams of roast beef we each get. I just need your birth dates, the longitude and latitude for the slaughterhouse where the cows were killed, and our anticipated post-lunch dip in self-esteem.”

“Why don’t you each take two,” Dennis said, grabbing a sandwich. “I’m good with what I got.”

Across the highway at the outlet mall, a crane hoisted a sign for a new store selling flamethrowers marketed to middle-aged men who found their lives excruciatingly dull and were seeking to ease their boredom by burning their houses down. A line of cars a mile and a half long waited to get into the parking lot, the drivers dreaming of flames.