PHIL

I REMAIN UNCONVINCED that I’m a character worth saving.

They save me all the same. When at last the chaos has died down and proven itself less chaotic than a kitchen conversation, when at last we three are camped out in my basement on the dirty old sectional, we collapse like medieval lovers, arms wide or curled inward.

“When will it all be over?” Gus asks.

“Octogus, it’s never, ever over.”

“At least we aren’t alone,” Gus says, to both of us.

“Gus.” I perceive this as a moment for corrections. “What would you say if I told you I am always alone?”

“I’d say that you’re being more play, um, melodramatic than usual.”

“Gus. I am inhuman. I have always been. Kalyn insists I tell you.”

“I don’t know why I thought you’d be more tactful about it, Phil.”

I’m not awaiting her response. I await his. I have awaited it for years.

When next I open my eyes, I am staring into the stars of his. “Shut up, Phil.”

“I am not speaking in jest. I have antisocial personality disorder.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wish he would look away. “Thanks for telling me.”

“This is not a coming out, fool. I am telling you I am better left to the flames. I am as heartless as any murderer, most likely. Today . . . today I beat Garth senseless.”

“That’s not cool, but you did that for me, right?”

“That was scary shit, but the dude was swinging a chair at you,” Kalyn adds.

“No, but I—listen—I am telling you I feign my humanity.”

“That’s weird.” Gus puts his palm on my heart. “You look like a real person.”

“Would you stop making a mockery of this?” I pull myself upright so quickly that he falls back in the blankets, catching himself ungracefully on Kalyn’s knees. “I have hurt you and will hurt you again. I have only ever pretended to be your friend.”

“I’d say you’re a good actor, then. Which is basically, um, the same.”

“It is not the same. One day I may harm someone as easily as help them—”

Without warning, Gus’s arms are around my neck and his breath is at my throat. His heartbeat matches mine. “Me too, Phil, if you don’t shut up. Whatever this is, however you are, we’ll work through it. It’s not our first dangerous campaign.”

I don’t know what I’m feeling, or if I’m feeling, but there is something. Something like relief or warmth, unfamiliar in this familiar, dark space beneath my home. I can’t fathom why, but I hug him in turn. Perhaps we do become the roles we adopt. Perhaps thinking makes it so.

“Bad as things are,” Gus says, “I think it could be worse.”

“Indeed; we could be falsely imprisoned for murder,” I supply.

“Or we could be murdered,” Kalyn adds, “or raised by shittier parents.”

We quiet at that.

“Welp. Since we’re all being optimists now,” Kalyn says, “who wants to go to the dance tomorrow?”

“Not really dressed for it.” Gus pulls away from me. “And there’s something deep and dark that Phil hasn’t told you.”

“I have just unveiled the greatest secret of my existence. What else must I divulge?”

“Phil can’t dance. Not even a little bit.”

It occurs to me now that there are no finales. There is no such thing as catharsis. Our story will not end with us joking in a basement as sirens blare and motors rev and strangers battle nonsensically far beyond us, removed from us, in newsrooms and on forums and in fields they don’t belong in.

It is enough, for an instant, to pretend it might. It is enough to believe in no ending at all. Sometimes you must be satisfied with dissatisfaction. It is the most human thing.