For a few days afterwards, it was almost like she had her old mind back…almost. There were no more imaginary guests at the breakfast table, there were no more jumpscares in the bathtub, and the mirror once again reflected her without regard or commentary. That st one was a little bittersweet, sure, and she still double-checked behind the shower curtain every time now, but on the whole, Calliope welcomed the change. Through workdays and off-days, things had snapped back into a new normal, and she was more than okay with that.

  There were still signs, of course, if she chose to look for them. But she often didn't, because provoking It seemed…unwise. Sometimes in a quiet room, when she was alone, she felt something stir at the back of her awareness, a little tick inside her brain. The shiver that ran through her skull told her that It was still present, biding its time, feeding off her senses for the time being. Feeding, drinking, listening…that was still ongoing, because the world still looked a bit too sharp to be entirely real, even though she'd rgely gotten used to the heightened senses It'd so gracelessly bestowed upon her.

  There were even a few indisputable benefits: she caught things instead of dropping them now, sometimes without even being aware she’d moved her hands. That'd prevented more than one catastrophic coffee spill at work. Speaking of work: its schedules and routines were burned into her memory, she operated on autopilot more and more often, and she'd even started to remember the numbers on customers' credit cards when they handed them through the drive-thru window to pay. The white, embossed digits burned vivid images in her mind's eye like phosphors. Not that she could do anything with that information, really; just weeks before a coworker had gotten fired for physically stealing a debit card and going on a miniature spending spree. How she ever expected to get away with that, Callie had no idea. No, she wasn't about to commit credit card fraud based on the fixations granted by her headmate.

  Overall, things were okay, and so she'd seen no reason to try and reach out to the Thing she knew was still in her head somewhere, lurking in the background. If It was content to sit back and watch, then she was of no mind to interfere with that. She'd put It–if not entirely out of her head, then at least as far away as It would go–aside until Friday, at the test.

  Late Friday evening pyed host to another of Annette's parties. Callie had been invited, of course, along with Erika and their entire friend group, and that presented her with a dilemma. Her go-to strategy of sitting back in a chair, popping a microdot pill and getting so unspeakably high that no one would bother her seemed increasingly unviable. She feared doing that again would put her in closer mental proximity with It, back in that horrible globe of mirrors where she'd seen Its true eldritch nature. Callie was almost gd she couldn't seem to remember having any dreams at all tely, because at least that meant she wasn't saddled with a nightmare depicting that awful vision. No, she needed to ensure that there wouldn't be a repeat of that first, fateful evening. She needed to ensure a peaceful trip devoid of tentacled aliens haunting her brain.

  The only way she could think of guaranteeing that was to talk to It. A dreadful prospect, that was. Like everything else, she put it off until the very st second: the sun had already set on Friday when she made her way into the bathroom. Erika had left hours ago for work, with some vague mention of showing up at Annette's te at night–Callie doubted that she would. She was alone with It again, and the bathroom seemed as good a pce as any to make contact.

  She closed the door and locked it for good measure. Against what, she didn't know. The mirror above the sink dispyed her own worried mug back at her. She gred at it for several long moments, trying to discern if the reflection was actually hers or was just It, mimicking her again. How could she tell the difference? She opened her mouth…and promptly closed it. The st thing she wanted was for the mirror to start talking back to her again. That wouldn't be necessary; It didn't have a face of Its own, so having a face-to-face conversation was pointless. I'm not summoning fucking Bloody Mary, she thought, and draped a hand towel over the mirror's leading edge.

  That wasn't enough–it covered only her reflection's face, not the neck or body underneath, and that made it even more unnerving to look at, because the face could now be any horrid thing imaginable. Calliope didn't dare remove the towel and reveal what could be lurking…in the mirror, in the tub…she turned away with a groan and pulled the shower curtain back. Nothing. The bathtub was empty, thank God, but she still felt safer being able to see into it. The Thing liked to appear just out of sight or around a corner or an edge; she didn't want to give It the chance to do so. So, she spun further to the left and faced the wall opposite the mirror. There was nothing there but tile, towels and peeling paint above her neckline. No way for It to jumpscare her. Perfect.

  "Hey," she whispered, with her heart in her throat, "you there?" The room seemed to grow colder, and goosebumps raised on her neck. Or maybe it was just nerves.

  No, it was definitely real. At once there was a shifting and stirring, as if her skull cavity was a great grotto for some hibernating creature just beginning to wake up. A bear, maybe, but far less cuddly and far more dangerous, with far more excessive limbs. The throbbing in her temples resumed, and she knew without turning that It was there, behind her. In the mirror, in the flesh–her flesh–or the illusion of it, anyway.

  She stood firm, and kept her eyes fixed on the wall. Whoever had painted it had done a shitty job of keeping it even and free of defects. "Wanted to uh, ask you something." She said, hiding her fear with false conviction.

  It reached into her scalp with Its familiar cold, cmmy grip, but she was ready: "Stop." She said, with as much authority as she could manage, and It withdrew. Reading her mind was the easy, zy way out. Not to mention–it felt fucking bizarre, and she needed to stay focused. The silence after It pulled back was good for that, even as she could feel Its curious stare burning at the back of her head.

  What is your request?

  The voice rang out from all directions, and for a moment Callie questioned the wisdom or utility of refusing to face It. It saw her without eyes, heard her without ears, so what was the point of her staring at the wall? It could very well just appear there, too, or push some hallucination across her optic nerve to remove the wall entirely. But It did not; perhaps that was a good sign? It respected her request to no longer appear wearing her face; that was something, right?

  Calliope took a deep breath. She formed her question carefully:

  "If I go and get high tonight, are you gonna make me see cursed shit again? Or can you chill?" She cringed internally; how could It–the non-embodiment of fucking incandescent chaos–be anywhere close to "chill"?

  It spoke–for real this time–still using her voice in signature monotone. "We will not interfere with your experience." It replied.

  No arguing, no 'ifs' or 'buts', but a straight answer. In spite of its uncanniness, Callie breathed a sigh of relief.

  "K. Thanks." She spoke, into the off-white paint. That made her slightly annoyed; she was literally talking to a wall. Behind her, the presence had diminished, and the dull pain in her head was starting to fade. She almost turned, but stopped herself: a glint of pink reflected in the tile confirmed It would still be there if she did.

  "That was all, you can uh, go now." She added. "If you're still gonna look like me, I don't wanna see that."

  It answered right away. "Yes, your response to reflections is consistently negative." There was actual colour in Its voice that time, a red smugness or smirk underlying the words. Wait; was it ughing at her?

  Calliope spun round to face the mirror. It had gone, It was no longer there; only the faintest afterimage remained above her reflection's decidedly brown eyes, after the towel she'd pced had fallen down onto the sink. It stained the sclera slightly pink, and Callie looked away until it dissipated. She turned the water on; she washed her hands. Not of It, as much as she'd have loved to–a dark shadow was settling in her occipital lobe–but to retain some sembnce of control. Crazy people didn't bother to wash their hands, right? They let the dirt underneath their nails accumute, freed from the grooming expected of saner beings. Her nails were clean, if a bit short and chewed…but It was the dirt under her mind. That wouldn't come out, bar a thorough brainwashing. Ugh. She dried them on the towel, and unlocked the door. On the whole, it'd gone rather well; she was cleared to get fucked up tonight.

  'Tonight' arrived a few hours ter, when she was pulling up to Annette's house with everything she'd need. In the inner pocket of her jacket was the little sheet of pills she would rely on in due time; it burned a hole into her awareness like a block of uranium as she ascended the steps to Annette's door. She had her phone, and her keys, and in her wallet was any emergency medical information in case something came up–hopefully, nothing would. And of course, the entire time, from before she'd even left the car to when she was standing in the threshold of Annette's kitchen, she wasn't alone. It was there, watching, perhaps waiting. Callie specuted what It would do in the event of an actual medical emergency: If she were frothing and seizing on the floor, It couldn't exactly call for help, trapped in her head as It was. And if It did, if It somehow took control of her body, she'd probably look like she was possessed…a vision came to her of It bending her body back and crab-walking to anyone who'd help, disturbing everybody. Maybe it was better that It do nothing, then, and let her perish, rather than lead her to an exorcism situation. She'd rather die than be embarrassed like that in front of friends.

  And on "friends": the kitchen wasn't empty, either. Annette was by the fridge chatting with some people Callie recognized only by face and not name–probably film-school-affiliated acquaintances, if she had to guess. Annette probably knew every twenty-something in the city who'd ever picked up a camera or paintbrush, at this point. Before she could call out, Annette had spotted her, and was heading towards her with a smile. Her hair was straightened again, like it usually was for special occasions; the long cinnamon locks followed behind her like the tail of a comet.

  "Callie! Hey, you made it!" She said, pced her red solo cup on the counter and wrapped her in a hug.

  Callie broke it off rather quickly. "I'm literally always here, Annette." She ughed. The tter picked up her cup and took a sip. She tilted it towards her; a clear and bitter liquid floated inside.

  "Yeah, I know, haha. You want any? Bought a buttload of sangria earlier."

  Callie took one look at it and grimaced.

  "That shit tastes like fucking nail polish remover, I'm good."

  Annette giggled, and turned back to her friends. "See, I told you she hates it!" The group of them looked at Callie warmly. She wished they wouldn't. It made her ears turn red.

  "It's just funny to me how you hate alcohol but you drop acid every fucking week here."

  "Yeah, well, I mean–" she stammered. Shit. Why did Annette have to be so casual about it? That kind of talk could get her in trouble if the wrong person overheard.

  "Seriously? That's kinda hardcore." Said the woman to Annette's right, the one with lime-green highlights and a nose ring who Callie found sort-of vaguely annoying. The man beside her nodded in agreement.

  "Nah, it's not a big deal." she insisted, scratching at the back of her head. God, please fucking kill me, she thought. The Thing stirred, and she felt a pang of panic that it would treat that thought as a wish to fulfill…before it fell still and silent again.

  Callie corrected her face into a smile. "Alcohol fucks with my meds, you know that." A physical excuse would be harder to contend with than mere preference, and it was her best attempt at banter.

  Annette wasn't having any of it, though. "Yeah, and acid doesn't?" She jabbed. The three of them colpsed into a fit of ughter. It was contagious, so much so Callie almost joined in, even if it was at her own expense.

  Annette collected herself, then took another drink. Her lips puckered from the taste, and her attention returned to Callie. "I didn't know–" she mouthed the word "oestrogen", lips stretching wide to form the silent 'O', "–worked like that. Gotta ask Erika, she'd tell me if you're bullshitting."

  Callie was thankful for the tact, although it did little to soothe her nerves.Annette's friends looked puzzled, though, and clearly didn't get the reference. She spoke in a hurry, before they could ask any weird questions:

  "She's probably not coming tonight, she has clinical again."

  Now Annette looked puzzled. "Aw, really? She texted me that she'd be really te. Hope she shows."

  "Oh, yeah, then maybe she will."

  Callie stared, unsure of how, or if, to continue the conversation. Annette's sky-blue eyes looked back at her from under sunny, golden eyeshadow. They were smiling, alongside her mouth; she looked genuinely happy to be talking to her. Calliope would've echoed the sentiment, if it had just been the two of them, but the moment more people were involved she started to sweat, literally and metaphorically. It wasn't that she was a bad conversationalist, just…ill-adapted at dealing with groups, or strangers, and especially groups of strangers. Blegh.

  Luckily, she didn't have to stand there staring like a freak for long. Like an accursed angel descending from on high, Mikey stumbled into the room with a roaring ugh, pnting a kiss on Annette's cheek.

  "Hey babe, I found you!" He crooned, turning. From the rubied flush in his freckled cheeks, Calliope could tell he was already a bit drunk, on only a bit–Mikey was a lightweight. Already his mousy brown hair stuck out at every angle like he'd just gotten out of bed–he probably had. Either that, or he'd been drinking in bed, which was quite pusible for him. Mikey was, in a word: a mess.

  "Oh, heya Callee-oh-pee!" He extended his hand; Callie took it, trying not to ugh in either annoyance or amusement.

  She immediately regretted it. "Wha–why the hell is it sticky?!" She pulled back and grimaced.

  "Oh, sorry–spilled some beer. I think." He looked towards Annette. His eyes were already assuming their well-trained puppy-dog shape and quality.

  "Carmichael O'Healy, please do not tell me that you got beer all over my carpet!" She rounded on him; a faux-scowl furrowed her brows. Mikey backed away and tried to ugh it off.

  "Nonono–it was in the blue room, on the newspapers! What's bck & white, and piss-yellow all over, right?" He joked. At that Annette rolled her eyes and seemed to rex. She exhaled through her nose so hard Calliope thought gray matter might sptter onto the floor.

  "I dunno why I love you, sometimes." She said, and wrapped one arm around his shoulder. The pair of them smiled at Calliope in unison.

  Ugh–the couple-y cuteness was making her green with nausea. Or envy. Probably the former. "Yeah I'm gonna go hang out, before you guys start making out again." She moved to turn away from the four pairs of eyes, to cim a chair somewhere and zonk herself out for the night…but was interrupted by Annette, determined to make one st call for her to stay.

  "Hey c'mon, why don't you hang out with us, then?" Blue eyes radiated a fierceness defying brightness and hue. Mikey nodded his head vigorously–she wouldn't have been surprised if it fell off, with how loosely his brain seemed to be connected to his body. "Yeah, Callie, join us!" He wavered.

  Calliope's eyes sought refuge in the bumps and ridges of the popcorn ceiling. "Nah, I wanna like, mingle, or whatever. Thanks, though." Mingle–the only mingling she had any intention of doing was between her tongue and mouth and pill. The ideal night of partying involved speaking to as few people as possible. She looked down from the ceiling, at the group. Annette seemed to discern her intentions; her look of resigned disappointment wove in Calliope a twinge of guilt.

  "Oh–alright. See you ter, then?" The smile she gave Calliope was weak, but knowing. The other three murmured their goodbyes, Mikey st of all, after his head finally stopped bobbing.

  "Yeah, totally." She lied, and headed out into the living room. That was enough of that.

  Outside of the kitchen, the house was thick with anticipatory air and the aroma of cheap alcohol. People were just beginning to trickle in–it was only a little past nine, after all. As they did, they collected in dense little groups strewn about the space, like iron filings drawn into formation by animal magnetism. Once a critical mass had been reached, Annette would throw some utterly unlistenable pylist up on the stereo, and the house would swell with an inebriated ferrofluid of happy voices, arms, and legs, all pulsing to the beat. Calliope had to give her some credit: the logistical nightmare of throwing a party every week was nothing to sneeze at. More than once, she'd been one of the st ones to leave, in the dead of night, and she'd helped Mikey and Annette clean the floor of the dozens of pstic cups, bottles, et cetera that accumuted. It was a lot of trouble to go through for a few hours of fun. But despite the mess it caused, and the undoubted strain on her (family's) budget, Annette still sent out the invites time after time. Calliope didn't, she couldn't understand why–the way some people socialized was forever one of the world's elder mysteries.

  And a mystery it would remain, once she found the cozy maroon armchair nestled along the wall and colpsed into it. Her jacket unfurled behind her like a cocoon. In just a moment, she'd be enveloped in a different kind of chrysalis, one where she'd need neither clothes nor eyes nor ears; her body and mind would dissolve into the high and she would–pupate? Gross–into a beautiful butterfly, or more likely, an ugly, fluffy moth, for the next few hours, before the metamorphosis reverted. If all went well, of course.

  She gave the room a quick once-over. Nobody was watching–that gave her the go-ahead to plunge her hand into the jacket's pocket and break off a square from the sheet hidden inside. The tiny dot within–even smaller than her fingernail–was colored midnight purple and marbled with light swirls of teal. Her hand trembled as she held it, her heart trebled in fear, both more than usual. The Thing had promised her that It wouldn't interfere…could she count on that? How much was Its word worth, exactly? Whatever It was, It wasn't human. That made It impossible to analyze as such. Right now, Its presence was dull and distant, almost too gray against the background to be seen, but she knew that could change in a fsh, if It were so inclined.

  Maybe this is a bad idea, she thought.

  Then the stereo clicked on via remote, and music filled her ears. A collective cheer went up from every corner of the room barring her own. The fresh waves of sound bounced right off the walls, crashed against her will, and steeled–or rusted–it for her. Calliope pressed the pill to her lips. It entered through the gap; she swallowed.

  For a few long minutes, nothing changed. The party kicked into full swing, people were talking and ughing underneath the music's insistent thud, and she curled herself into the seat and simply watched and listened. And waited, mostly motionless except her eyes. She stowed her phone in her back pocket for safekeeping, and y back. The ridges of the ceiling looked like little mountains and valleys from where she sat.

  Then, there was a twinge in her stomach; that was always the start of it. All of the unnatural sharpness of the world seemed to drain away and runoff inside her belly. Lines and edges fuzzed and blurred; the ceiling resembled more an ocean now than nd, white with streaks of color from the party lighting somebody had just flicked on. A sudden fear overtook her, and she searched her brain for the sign of It, just to make sure the promise would be kept. She found It, still, in the back, seemingly slumbering. Okay, okay. Calliope rexed, and imagined that the ceiling was an endless array of foam, roiling above her head. The spots of color were like little ships dancing through the spray.

  And then…she's falling into it, up into the waves. All of the parts of her brain that tell her what she's supposed to be feeling are lighting up like a psychedelic Christmas tree. Combined with her senses the effect is overwhelming, and a little thing called reality pulls away at the st second and yields to the imaginary. And then she's dreaming, or close to it; she's high. So very high. Calliope won't remember this.

  And past the wall of sleep where her mind is resting–if you could call it rest–her body is still there. The party is still there, and only It could hope to untangle her hallucinations from fact and see anything at all coherent through her eyes. So It does; they move and scan through the room like a cathode ray. It's forced to adjust for the extreme dition of her pupils and compute a better white bance, but regardless: the picture comes into view. Let there be light, sound and color, waves of all senses coalescing.

  It blinks her eyes–that has to be done manually while Callie's under. Slowly, after an eternity of waiting, she rises from the chair like Dracu's bride and stands. Everybody is talking about something or other, she hears it all: "That asshole Lewin puts the curve too high", "I don't really know if he just wants to fuck me", "Nah, I want to get fucked up tonight, man." There's a hand on her shoulder.

  There's a–she turns. Sawyer James is there sixteen inches away, looking at her and smiling.

  "Heyyyy, Callie! Whoa–" he says. She sees her reflection in his eyes and his in hers in his and so on but no farther–his mind is a bck box. She looks utterly fucked up; her irises are but thin rings around her pupils, like coronae over twin eclipses. Sawyer sees them, and steps back, unsettled, like any other animal would be. "–Damn, alright. How high are you right now?" He grins.

  Calliope would py it off, or quip something clever. "Uhhh, like fourteen?" Her mouth forms the jesting words with preternatural crity. Sawyer is looking at her strangely, there's a mixture of concern and something else–awe?–on his face.

  "Far out." He says, and winks at her. "Was wondering if you maybe wanted to hang out…with me? Maybe?" She couldn't have seen it, but It does: a vein in his neck bulges at a slightly faster tempo. His heart rate quickens. He's nervous.

  She turns and looks back at the chair; she half-expects to see her body there wrapped in her jacket, like she astrally projected out of it, but it is empty. It rummages through the parts of her brain that deal with things like social awareness, tact, Sawyer James, and other mundane and boring things. They're too slow to respond, doused in euphoria as they are. It improvises instead.

  "Yeah, sure! I'm down!" She returns the smile and brushes the hair out of her eyes. It doesn't really help; everything's still fuzzy and overexposed. Oh well, at least Sawyer seems content with her reply.

  "Cool!" He leads her deeper into the crowd, where the din is much louder and presses at her eardrums. As she bumps from person to person her mind is jostled about from dream to dream; she's just a passenger now in her own head. The irony is lost on her.

  The next few minutes, or hours–time blends together in a spiral–are a blur. Sawyer is introducing her to some people she's never met before, in varying levels of inebriation. Then she's dancing–awkwardly, she's really no good at it–next to him. He's smiling from ear to ear, like his face is broken, there's music resonating through her skin and bones, and all of her vellus hairs stand on end as she takes in every st quale. If Callie were awake, she could understand: before, she was only high at a party. Now, she was high on the party itself, on every tone and word that passed across her eyes or ears. It was exhirating.

  "Hey, come check this out!" Sawyer says, after some time, gesturing down the hall. Calliope hesitates. The cmor and motion she's enveloped in is a glut of sensory information, and the hallway is darker and more quiet. It doesn't want to leave. If she were sober, she'd jump at the opportunity to escape the party. She isn't…but It reluctantly steers her limbs in the direction indicated. There should be no interference.

  Past the door to the bathroom and the wall of photos hung on clothespins, there are other doors, or were: the threshold Sawyer's standing in has had its removed. It rests instead against a wall inside the room, painted over several times and with a cutout near the bottom rge enough for a person to fit through. She remembers it from the art project Annette did, something about a human-sized doggie door? It was silly at the time, and it was silly now. She goes inside. Beside her there's a low twin bed with a brass metal frame; Sawyer sits on it and motions for her to join him.

  She does, but doesn't know why. The floor underneath her feet crinkles–forgotten, paint-covered newspapers paper overt of ar most of the room. Even the walls aren't spared, though she can still see the original blue paint in spots and cracks where nothing is hanging or pstered on its surface. The Blue Room is so misnomer; she'd always thought a more accurate name would be the Disaster Room. Somehow in all that chaos, Annette and co. produced art, actual undeniable beauty; Calliope wonders if that's the secret to it.

  "Hey," Sawyer says. "You're pretty cool to have at parties when you try, y'know." He's staring at the wall and fidgeting his hands in his blue jeans. Nerves. He has nerves. If she could just look more closely she could see their activations gallop down his wrists, like peristalsis…but unfortunately her eyes have limits.

  "Thanks! I try!" She answers. His right hand clenches to a fist.

  "If you ever wanted to get like, coffee or something ter, I'd be down."

  "LOL," she enunciates, "you know I don't drink coffee, man." She hates it, she doesn't. Oh but she should: the bitter taste It conjures from her drowsy memory is exquisite. Coffee sounds wonderful to It right now, if not to her.

  Sawyer frowns. He looks disappointed. "Well I mean…doesn't have to be coffee, y'know? But, what, does it not get you fucked up enough?" He looks at her beside him, and his eyes are full of warmth. "Kinda surprised you're even functional right now."

  "What, am I usually not?" Callie would be offended; It's only curious.

  "Yeah. You're usually passed out right about now. This is the first time I've actually had a conversation with you when you're high. Hey, you're not, like–" his voice trails off. He looks away.

  "Like…?"

  "Like, faking it. Right?" His eyebrows raise.

  She almost ughs. Underneath the yer of puppetry holding her aloft, Calliope is literally, unfathomably, unspeakably high. She couldn't form words even if she wanted to. The accusation is absurd.

  "Nah, I'm genuinely fucking high right now." She grins, a little too widely. Sawyer rexes a little.

  "I mean, you look it, yeah. It's fucking impressive how you don't sound it, too. Sorry. Oh, how do I–" he brushes his hand through the mass of red, curly hair, "do I look any different? To when you're sober, I guess. Always wondered."

  "Hm."

  Again, she tries to peer into him. His blue eyes are like the ocean, her gaze pencil-dives into them with great momentum, but somewhere in the abyssal zone sunlight fades and blue turns to bck. The pressure is unbearable…maybe she can push past it? Without meaning to, her eyes trace lines and arcs that draw Sawyer's in like magnets in hysteresis. He's mesmerized, entranced. The stare is unbroken for many seconds, Calliope can feel the darkness parting and giving way, almost there, It sees him, she

  Blinks.

  And so does Sawyer–multiple times in quick succession. He shakes his head and all her efforts wash away. The frustration that fills her is almost overwhelming. Her right hand twitches; only the lethargy of her nerves saves Sawyer from being throttled, then.

  But it doesn't show on her face, because Sawyer is looking at her like he's never seen her before. His voice is barely a whisper:

  "Cal…sorry if this is fucked up, but. Your eyes look wicked cool all dark like that. Like–" he lets out a nervous ugh, "like a cat, or something. You like cats, right?"

  She's not quite sure what to make of it. It queries her brain again for a response, and it doesn't timeout this time: Sawyer likes her. Like, likes her. It's the only expnation that makes any sense, even if it also makes none whatsoever. They've barely spoken, and never at the same time sober, how could he? What is there to like? Why her?

  Her mind unravels into a strange loop, full of self-deprecation and worry. It's distracting, repetitive, annoying…so It tunes it out. Sawyer is still watching her for a response. She smiles up at him. "Thanks…and yeah, I like cats. Who doesn't?"

  Sawyer's eyes dart all around, he'll look anywhere but at her now. She can't tell if he just shares her appreciation of the feline form and wants to tell her, or if he's pnning something. She watches him in silence, and a harsh, acidic green bubbles across her vision. Sawyer is an outsider, which makes him unworthy. He couldn't possibly understand her, from outside of her mind. Only It can; she almost ughs at the insanity of the notion that Sawyer James could ever be a match for her. Ha! He's only human. But just before it's about to burst from her lips, before she can unleash a maniacal ughter that will drive him away or at least unseat him, he finds his nerve, and his eyes fix on her.

  "Okay, uh. Callie?" He says. His voice is choked. "Don't know if it's the time to say this, but…" There's a warmth around her fingertips. His hand is touching hers, now.

  This has gone too far. He doesn't have her permission. He doesn't have Its permission either. The arm bells are ringing, but they don't reach her. Calliope's mind isn't capable of processing the information just yet, but it needs to be, if she's to behave appropriately.

  The pattern must be altered.

  It yanks, hard, at the part of her brain responsible for keeping bance, and she's suddenly falling forwards in a swoon. Before she even hits the ground It's sending signals and rewiring; her liver kicks into overdrive, damn whatever bile byproducts. The drug is leaving her system, there's a ringing in her ears, Sawyer is calling her name and shaking her against the floor. The words pierce through the psychedelic haze and reach her, and her mind is dragged out to the forefront from euphoria: "Callie!"

  Finally, at st, her head breaks through the surface of the foam.

  Calliope was grateful that she woke up somewhere dark, at least, and not under the party's bright lights. She stirred against the carpet, collecting her scattered thoughts. Why was she on the floor? The rough fabric was nothing like the armchair she'd passed out in. How the hell did she get there?

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, she wasn't alone: Sawyer James was there crouched in front of her. He looked scared out of his mind.

  "Sawyer? What're you–" she said, groggily.

  "Oh shit, you're alright! You kinda just fell over on me, there."

  "Shit, I did? S-sorry man." she mumbled. Her eyes scanned the room; the dull splotches of color on the walls and the smell of paint informed her of her location, one of Annette's extra rooms she used for photoshoots or art. What the fuck was she doing in there, with Sawyer James of all people?

  Sawyer continued to stare at her, clouding her mind. Calli's head hurt too much to deal with that right now. She had to get rid of him, somehow, so she could clear it up and think sharper, sunnier thoughts.

  "Hey," she started, and rubbed her temples to py at being more ill than she was, "can you get me some water? Sorry."

  It took a second to register, but Sawyer nodded. "Sure! No problem, just hang tight." He said, voice fading away ever-so-slightly as he stood up. He shuffled out into the hall, where music seeped in from the ongoing party.

  That was one problem solved. Callie's next concern was finding her phone, to see what time it was. She fumbled in her back pocket and found it–there. Good, she hadn't lost it. She extracted it and flipped the screen on; the white digits at the top revealed a number she didn't at all expect.

  If where she awakened made absolutely zero sense, then when made so little it was firmly negative. 11:23pm, several hours earlier than she had any business being conscious. The microdot should've kept her under for at least another two, but no: she was awake now, and completely sober to boot. Her heart frosted over as she realized that the only logical expnation for that was also the one she dreaded most.

  It had sobered her up again, she had no doubt of that. But why? The past few hours of her memory were a colorful, ecstatic blur; she couldn't remember any specifics. From her perspective, she'd gone straight from falling under in the armchair to waking up next to Sawyer James in a secluded room. Heat rose in her cheeks at the implication of that. Had they done something? Why would he have led her away from the party–or the other way round–except for a secret, private, reason? It was at least possible that her judgment could have been impaired enough for that, if somehow she'd been capable of locomotion while higher than a kite…but it still didn't make any sense. It had said It wouldn't interfere; she wondered if that extended to allowing her to make poor decisions while under the influence. Being taken advantage of was an "experience", after all, however awful, so she figured not. Gross. And of course, It said nothing to confirm or deny; she could barely even feel Its presence in her mind at the moment.

  There was a knocking sound on the doorframe, and Calliope turned. A young woman she didn't recognize by face or name stood in the threshold, looking down at her. The bck sweater and tights she wore made her look like only a silhouette against the light streaming in.

  "Hey! Uh, Callie, right?" She asked. Her voice was sweet and sharp and bubbly, like carbonated lemonade with a single cube of ice to soften it.

  "Hi? Yeah, what's up?" Finally getting to her feet, she answered the question with one of her own. The strange woman lowered her hands into her pockets and smiled.

  "Uh, Annette's looking for you! Wants to know if you wanna go out to get burgers with us."

  Hamburgers at eleven p.m–that was so very Annette. Callie would've ughed it off and declined, if her stomach hadn't growled right then like some sort of sea creature. She'd thought it pretty quiet, but apparently, the stranger heard it too; she giggled through her nose. A sudden wave of fatigue hit her. Yeah…she could go for some food.

  "Okay, sure. Thanks. Lemme just grab my coat." She strolled towards the door and the stranger moved aside to let her pass. Up close, she looked less like a shadow and more like a person–but still with an overabundance of darkness. Her jet-bck hair fell over one eye in front and just over each shoulder. The pallor of her skin and heavy eyes and eyeliner made her resemble a raccoon, almost–or more likely, she was just a little goth. "Little" was the word, too: despite her dark and imposing presence, she was a head shorter than Calliope. And she was cute. Very cute; Callie was intrigued. She tried and failed to keep gay thoughts from crystallizing.

  "Hey," she asked out in the hall. The woman in bck fell behind her to the left as she began walking. "What's your name?"

  "Oh, I'm Ettie." The voice answered. Callie was suddenly conscious of how she was walking, past the wall of haphazard Poroids Annette and co. had hung up. She straightened out her prawnish pose and swayed her hips more than usual, on the off chance Ettie was an audience that wouldn't hurl tomatoes at the earliest opportunity.

  "Oh, cool!” Another diminutive nickname. "What's that short for?"

  "Esther. Calliope for you, right?"

  "Yeah. So how do you like, know Annette? Feel like I haven't seen you around before." Callie could never keep up with the rotating cast and crew of artsy-creative types that Annette associated with. It was totally possible they'd just missed each other up to now. She preferred that outcome over the alternative: that Ettie had been there all along, and she'd just been too high to interact with her when they'd both been present in the same house.

  "Oh don't worry, this is my first time coming to one of these! A mutual friend introduced us."

  As she finished speaking, the hallway opened out onto the main living room, still awash with a small ocean of partygoers. Over by the door, Callie spotted Mikey and Annette in the dim light, already bundled up in winter wear. The chair she'd passed out in was still unoccupied. Upon it, her coat unfurled, as if its owner had been assumed up into heaven. She half-wished that was the case, though to her starving stomach the prospect of a full meal sounded equally divine right now. She weaved her way through the crowd, and Ettie followed behind her like a shadow.

  Once there, she'd barely rejacketed her shoulders before Annette appeared out of nowhere. Mikey was close behind her, tripping over his own two feet as ever.

  "Hey, Callie! Wow, you sobered up quick." She said, making way for him at her side.

  "Callie's just too powerful like that," Mikey huffed. "I'd be drooling all night if I did what you did." He leaned onto Annette's shoulder.

  Callie ughed. Ettie echoed her. Somehow, against all odds and logic, Mikey managed to put his coat on inside-out. "Don't think the world is ready for you to drop acid, Mikey." She turned to Annette, who was eyeing him with resigned amusement. "Don't ever let him do that shit."

  "Yeah, he'd probably find some way to fuck up taking it. Or it wouldn't do shit, since he already acts stoned as hell. Right, babe?" She leaned over and kissed Mikey on the cheek.

  "Yup, I'm high on life forever and always." Mikey muttered. He didn't even look up; he was too busy trying to unzip the coat from the inside.

  Annette watched him struggle with it for a moment–probably deciding whether interfering would help or hinder –then turned back to her. "Anyway…we were gonna hit ABC for food. You coming? Erika said she'd meet us there."

  Callie stood up on tiptoes; far away through the kitchen pass-through, she spotted Sawyer filling a gss of water at the sink. Perfect; if she hurried, she could make it out without alerting him she'd left, and avoid an awkward encounter. "Yeah, I'm hungry. It'll just be us, then?" She gnced towards the front door, already plotting a route through the traffic.

  "I'm coming, too–if that's okay." Ettie piped up, a few feet behind her. Callie jumped; she'd forgotten she was there.

  "Yeah, alright! It's not far. Party's not going anywhere, if you're still up for that after." Annette turned towards the door, guiding a helpless, hapless Mikey with one hand at his back. Calliope trudged after her, past cliques of people talking and drinking, into the midnight air.

  As soon as the cold hit her nose, she rexed a bit. The party was no longer so loud around her ears; only the New Engnd chill swaddled them now. She let Annette and Mikey get ahead of her by a dozen or so steps–she wasn't particurly eager to start the smalltalk early, before they arrived at the restaurant–and that left her and Ettie to g behind. The newest member of their group was hardly visible in between the streetlights, due to being dressed all in bck. At least she looked cozy: Calliope could see her own breath, while Ettie’s nose was buried in the warm, wide colr of her sweater.

  “Hey,” Callie started, and paused. Trying not to step on any cracks in the sidewalk stole her focus for a moment. “Do you always wear bck, is that like your thing, or whatever?”

  “Huh? Oh, nah. Usually have a lot more colour, actually, just trying something new.”

  “C-cool.” Her teeth chattered. It was really frigid out tonight; Callie wished she'd brought her scarf. She envied Ettie, who seemed totally unbothered by the cold.

  “So, how long have you known Annette for?” She asked. Callie was jealous of the warmth in her voice. Talking was her best and only distraction from the cold.

  “Oh, since high school, really. Earlier, I guess. We've been friends since like the seventh grade?” As she spoke, Annette looked back for a second, to make sure she was still following. Callie fshed her a reassuring smile. “So yeah. Kinda a long time."

  "Wow. You must be really close, then?"

  Callie looked up from the sidewalk and then to the right, where Ettie was watching her expectantly. She could only see her eyes above the sweater–the rest of her face was sunken into it–but just on their own, they gave off an air of friendliness and warmth. There was something about Ettie that made her feel comfortable talking about that past.

  "Eh…" she sighed. "We used to be. Not so much anymore–she's doing her thing and I'm doing mine, I guess."

  "That's too bad." The sympathy in Ettie's voice could be felt through all the yers between them. "She does seem really busy…What's your thing? What're you doing tely?"

  Calliope averted her eyes. They'd just rounded the corner onto a busy city street, sprinkled with cars even at this time of night. She looked ahead, past Annette & Mikey's silhouettes. Just a little farther…if only they had moved just a little faster, then they'd be there already, and Ettie wouldn't have had time to ask such an innocuous and terrifying question. The st thing Callie wanted was to make herself look pathetic in front of an attractive stranger, by revealing that all she had going in life was fulfilling a dropout-to-barista pipeline. They were almost there, she was in the home stretch; she only needed to stall the question a little longer, before they arrived and their thoughts all turned to ordering and eating food.

  "Oh you know, just bouncing around a lot right now, trying to figure out what I wanna do." She lied. Hopefully Ettie would take the bait, and she could talk about one of her hobbies instead of her boring service job.

  "I see. What kind of stuff are you into?" Perfect catch: hook, line and sinker. Callie immediately prepared to send a flurry of thoughts down the line.

  "Guess I'm pretty into space, in general? Astronomy, sci-fi, rocket science, that sorta thing. Was trying to major in astrophysics, but–" She dropped out. Callie shook her head. "–sorry. Shit, it's cold. But…kinda taking a gap year right now."

  "Sounds pretty cool!"

  "Yeah, I guess." Callie kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. Ahead, Mikey and Annette were ughing about something. The way it lit up both their faces was so cute she felt a pang of loneliness.

  "So, do you think there's life on other pnets, then?" Ettie's voice wandered in.

  "Huh? Oh, I mean, maybe…probably?" That was a question she'd actually thought a lot about, but she didn't want to risk boring Ettie with all of the nerdy details. She had to be careful when discussing interests close to her heart, or it could wound her grievously. If she started going on about the Fermi paradox, the Goldilocks Zone, and potential exopnet megastructures, she could very well alienate her and come off as a total geek. That wouldn't do.

  "Same, really…always wanted to get a photo of a UFO, you know? If it's even something you could take a picture of, I mean. Maybe all the aliens are just invisible to us." Ettie's tone grew brighter, impossibly warm against the chill from the wind tunnel created by the tall buildings on either side of the street. Calliope regretted her weak, noncommittal answer. Ettie seemed pretty cool, actually; she didn't shy away from weird or esoteric topics like expected. This was perfect.

  "Yeah! Like maybe there's life made out of exotic materials, or like, life made out of WIMPs–" the words spilled from her mouth in a stampede, driven by excitement.

  "LOL," Ettie pronounced each letter as its own sylble, like some early 2000s news report on Internet sng that hadn't done its research. There was a hint of self-awareness to it. "What's a wimp?"

  "Oh, it's–"

  "Hey, you done being antisocial? We're here!" Annette called out behind her. She and Mikey had stopped at the entrance. Nestled in-between two brownstone apartment buildings was the pce, neon signs abze in the bay windows. Red-and-white striped awnings stretched out from the door halfway to the sidewalk, where there was a little chalkboard A-frame detailing specials and discounts and whatnot. As an acrostic, in scratchy, chalky cursive, there was a name: Akeley's Burger Cottage.

  Callie hurried to catch up, and Ettie followed her without a word. Now that their destination was in view, she had only one thought on her mind: filling her stomach with te-night, "gourmet" fast food.

  "I literally wasn't, but okay." She huffed in Annette's direction. She stuck out her tongue in response, once Calliope caught up.

  "Whatevs, it's cool." She leaned against the wrought-iron fence that lined the approach to the door. "Erika beat us here. Thought it was gonna be the three of us, but they can just put us in a booth."

  "Did you seriously make a reservation? It's fucking midnight."

  "I made it, actually!" Mikey chimed in. His jacket was rightside-out now; the beet-redness of his face showed what a struggle that'd been to achieve. "Just in case, you know?"

  Seven eyes turned towards the store's facade. Through rge-paned, unfrosted windows, Callie could see Erika talking to the hostess, still in her scrubs. They were the only two souls visible in the entire building.

  "Yeah, I'm sure we'll need it. C'mon, it's fucking cold." Callie brushed past them and opened the door; a little bell rang as she entered.

  Warmth, sweet warmth, and the smell of delicious fried somethings wafting in the air, greeted her arrival. Maybe it was just hunger, or the cold, or the way all her senses felt dialed up to eleven now…but she'd never stepped foot into a greater paradise. She uncorked her hands from where they'd been nestled in her pockets, and rubbed them together. Feeling was starting to return to her fingers. While she rewarmed herself like microwaved leftovers, Ettie stood behind her in the corner as unbothered as ever.

  "Heyyy, Callie!" Erika turned from the hostess desk and beamed at her. "Wow, you look sober–proud of you!"

  "Ah, shut up." She rolled her eyes, but returned the smile. "How was work?"

  "Literally can't wait until I'm done with this rotation. I am barely alive right now. Oh hey, guys!"

  Mikey and Annette had walked in. The former's nose began to twitch like a rabbit's. "Smells amazing! Somebody's cooking?"

  "Well, Mikey, they do serve food here." Callie jabbed.

  "Whoa, for real?" He grinned from ear-to-ear, but it was impossible to tell if it was in jest or genuine.

  "Hi" Annette approached the hostess. "I have a reservation for–"

  "Mikey? Party of four?" The woman in the red vest finished. "Yeah, right this way."

  "Wait, it's five, actually–" Callie started, as the three of them started to queue into the dining room. A tug on her jacket sleeve stopped her.

  "I'm just gonna pull up a chair, don't worry." Ettie said. She went ahead after them, leaving Calliope to bring up the tail.

  The pce wasn't very big. Wouldn't be much of a burger "cottage" if it were, Callie thought. Just around the corner was a red booth that seated four; Mikey and Annette cmbered into one side while she and Erika took the other, with Callie on the outside. After the hostess showed them to their seats, Ettie stole a chair from one of the adjacent empty tables, and pnted it facing the booth. She looked at Calliope and shrugged.

  "Not like anyone's using it, right?" Her toothy grin was blinding white under the dim overhead mps, meant to evoke a 1950's diner.

  "Aw, they got rid of their paper menus, they just have these stupid QR codes!" Erika groaned. Callie looked down to the little square of bck and white dots taped to the center of the table. The five of them pulled out phones, arrhythmically, to scan it in and follow the link.

  "Are we ordering together, or separately?" Callie asked, turning her eyes up to meet Annette's. Blue eyes creased and smiled at her again. "I got it, it's on me." She said, and that was the final release needed to make Calliope's restraint crumble. Her stomach then took over; If Annette was paying, she didn't have to worry about getting the smallest, most efficient morsel to fill her up for the least cost.

  "Alright, well in that case," Mikey's voice cut off her very thoughts; he seemed to have only one volume, "I'll have the PB&J (Peanut Burger & Jelly), and a rge chocote milkshake." Annette raised an eyebrow, but dutifully typed away on her phone all the same.

  Erika groaned and leaned across the table. Callie could feel the gre emanating from her eyes even from her oblique angle. "Really, man? C'mon it's like midnight, you're really gonna make them make all that right now?"

  Mikey's cheerfulness was unphased. "This is Beantown, the city that never sleeps! I'm sure they can manage it."

  "That's New York, dipshit." Annette jabbed. "Love you!" She added in response to Mikey's crestfallen look. He was only partially wrong, Callie thought: NYC never slept, but Boston–or at least her one-woman corner of it–was sleepless, by way of insomnia rather than revelry.

  Erika sat back and thumbed her phone screen. "Ugh, whatever. I'll get the Thanksgiving-whatever burger–no cheese, please. Thanks."

  The removal of dairy came as a surprise to Callie. Erika was an absolute fiend for the grilled cheese she made at home–when she could stomach it. "Damn, imagine being ctose intolerant." She teased, without looking up. To her right, in her peripheral vision, she saw Erika stick out her tongue.

  "Pbbt, sorry I don't feel like being stuck in the bathroom all night! What're you gonna get, anyway?"

  "Oh, uh," she thumbed the screen without really seeing it, "a pin hamburger, add mozzarel." Annette's fingers typed it in.

  To her left, Ettie suppressed a giggle: the sound was bubbly and sweet, almost tart. The phone case she held up in her right hand had bck cat ears at the top, and multicolored charms hanging off it–a starfish, a vampire bat, a flower. It was kind of kitsch, and cheesier than any of the food ordered thus far…but Callie thought it was absolutely adorable.

  "Isn't that just a cheeseburger, then?" She asked. "Oh, I'll have the purple yam veggie burger." In one swift motion, she flicked the screen on her phone off and returned it to the pocket of her sweater.

  Calliope tried to protest. "N-No, it's–I don't like all the shit they put on it, pickles and ketchup and all that, so I gotta get it pin." She stuttered. "But I love cheese, so–"

  "Okay–looks good. I'll have–" Annette flicked through the options with a flourish; the pad of a manicured pointer finger pressed down onto a row near the bottom. "The sunny-side-up burger! Thanks, y'all." She pced the order, and smiled at each of them in turn.

  "Thanks for paying the bill, Annette." Callie couldn't meet her gaze, she looked down at the table's minated wood instead.

  "Yeah, same." Erika echoed. She colpsed back so far into the vinyl seat it nearly absorbed her tiny frame. "I'm so tired–thanks for letting me show up just so you can pay for my food."

  "Hey, no problem. You guys know my dad doesn't care." Annette said.

  "It's really romantic, if you ask me." Mikey looked from Erika to his girlfriend and back again. His eyebrows raised and lowered like a hyperactive drawbridge.

  Erika scoffed. "Dude. You know I love her, but we're not gonna kiss again, you freak."

  "Oh shit, yeah," Annette looked up at the ceiling. "I almost forgot about that time."

  "What–you're saying you forgot me? What the fuck, Annie?" Erika winked, and maintained a pyful air, but Callie could tell she was seething a little underneath.

  "Sorry that wine makes me do gay shit I don't remember, Chacha." She addressed the pet name in Erika's direction. Its recipient flinched. Mikey couldn't contain his glee; he gnced at Callie and fanned himself.

  Erika turned to her. "If wine's all she needs, don't let her have any of your freaky pills, or I won't be able to get her off me." She jabbed a finger at Mikey, who mock-winced like it'd been stabbed into his heart. "Careful, dude, or I'll steal your girl, and I don't even like girls! That's Callie's thing!" She ughed; the rest of the booth joined in.

  Up to then, Callie had watched the exchange with nothing more than amusement. Ettie, too, had looked on without a word. But now she'd been targeted, and she had to try and defend herself, even if the "threat" was only friendly insinuations about her sexuality.

  "Y'all, I'm literally bi…and acid doesn't make you gay. Wine doesn't either, haha." She said, across the table to Annette. Guilty as charged–she shrank into her shoulders and fshed a mischievous smile in response.

  Erika, however, hadn't finished. "Hmmm, sorry, is bisexual the one where you don't have a girlfriend OR a boyfriend? Cuz yeah, that's totally you!" Her words cut deep; Callie struggled to mount a counterattack.

  "Yeah, well, uh, I…fuck you." She stammered. It was a pathetic retort. Annette and Mikey's eyes were on her now, too, and both pairs of blue contained a generous amount of…sympathy? No–pity. Fucking pity.

  "We really gotta set you up with somebody! Coming out with us instead of tripping out, that's a good start!" Annette said. There was no malice or mockery in her voice, she was as genuine as ever, but Callie couldn't help but take it as patronizing. She should've expected it; the topic of her singleton status came up every now again when they hung out. That it was the butt of friendly jokes meant that she must've been single for quite a long time, indeed, by social standards. The st time she was in in a retionship…she was still in college. Shit. Her heart filled with ice at the realization, and it only grew colder when she gnced to the left and caught Ettie's eye. The smile on her face was thin-lipped and sympathetic. Calliope felt like she was falling: any chance she'd had of something blossoming between them, however small, might as well have fallen away now that she'd learned the truth. Having her friends joke about "setting her up" must have made her a hundred times less desirable.

  "Nah, it's fine. I guess I'll meet someone when I meet them. Don't wanna force it." She forced her lips to curl upwards to hide the look of pain. Annette's brow wrinkled, and her mouth opened, but she said no more.

  Erika rubbed her shoulder. "Hey…sorry if that was a little mean."

  "What? Nah, it's okay." She kept her eyes down at the table.

  "You're pretty cool, Callie, you'll find some hot babe, or dude-babe, or–" Mikey's eyes lit up brighter than the sun, "oh look, food!"

  Another red-vested employee arrived with an extra-rge circur tray, upon which their meals were id out in a crossed-out square: weird, purpley veggie burger in the middle and the rest around it at each corner. Mikey's massive chocote shake towered over the scene. It looked like it contained enough sugar on its own to kill an elephant–which meant Mikey would probably order another, after he got through it. One by one, the waitress deposited each basket at its owner's pce, Callie first and Ettie st, then left them with a curt "enjoy!" and returned to the kitchen.

  Mikey cpped his hands together. "Alright!" He said. "Let's eat!" A tan and purple sludge dripped down the side of his bun. Erika grimaced. "Peanut butter?! On a burger?"

  "Yeogh!" He replied with a mouthful of it. Beside him, Annette was trying not to ugh. The fact that Mikey's brand of "comic relief" hadn't gotten old for her, in all the years they'd been dating–it was truly remarkable. Love like that was another of life's great mysteries.

  At the moment, though, she didn't need love–fat and carbs to clog her heart with would do fine. The rest of them dug in. Even at this te hour, the fries were crisp and hot, the beef was pink and juicy, it was altogether wonderful. The leviathan in Callie's stomach slowly became satisfied with each bite she chewed, and swallowed. There were no more strange, otherworldly gurgles from her belly. Otherworldly…she wracked her brain again for any sign of It, anything at all. She found none, and that made her uneasy. But then again, It'd only ever voiced Its discontent to her when she'd been engaged in something boring. Her entire night had passed at a breakneck pace, and the fvors she tasted were anything but dull. Surely, a te-night meal with friends was sufficiently exciting for It?

  She took another bite, and looked to her left. Ettie ate her sandwich like–well, like an animal would put it gently. A purple stain ringed her lips that she didn't bother to wipe off, and she scarfed the sandwich down in big, uneven bites, as if it was her st meal. The dispy was so violent that Callie wondered why nobody else had said anything yet–probably because, despite the aggression, she somehow kept it quiet. There were no growls or abnormal mashing sounds, she ate with the same volume as everyone else. It was just messier, almost, sort of…hot? What?

  "Hey," she said at st. "So–veggie burger–are you vegan, by the way?"

  Ettie pulled away from the burger. She licked her lips. "Not like, officially. I'm just not used to eating meat."

  "Oh, okay. Is it like a texture thing?" Callie asked. She was no stranger to strange dietary preferences: some foods just felt wrong in her mouth, not the fvor but the shape, or the colour, or just the energy somehow. If someone hadn't eaten meat for most of their life, maybe trying it was weird and unnerving? It was literally flesh, after all. She eyed the sandwich in her hands, and noticed how the meat stained the inside of the bun a little red; she was suddenly queasy.

  Ettie continued. "Hm. Never thought of it like that. No, I'm not really picky, just…never really got the chance before, I guess."

  Never got the chance…before what? Did she grow up under a rock or something, or with strict vegan parents? Calliope didn't get the chance to ask; at that moment Erika nudged her on the shoulder, and she turned away to face her.

  "Bet this beats the stuff you eat at home, right?" She said. Already, half of her generous meal had disappeared; Callie never understood how she did it. Erika was tiny, where the hell did it all go?

  "Hey! C'mon, my cooking's not that bad." She leaned towards her and hissed, pleading without words that Erika would stop embarrassing her. Maybe Erika got the message–she raised her eyebrows–but she didn't heed it.

  "All you make is stuff you can heat up in the oven and unseasoned chicken stir fry!"

  "But I like the pin chicken!" She whined. Sure, the stir fry and reheated mechanically separated chicken nuggets she made were a little boring…but they were predictable, she always knew what to expect. Erika just couldn't understand the value of that. She tried to change the subject; Ettie had stifled a ugh, and Callie couldn't tell whether it was directed with her or at her.

  "Kay, uh–" Her head was full of static. She bnked for a second. "Ettie, do you cook for yourself much?"

  Ettie grasped a french fry between two pale, slender fingers. Instead of eating it, she slid it around against the bottom of the basket, almost like a pencil, picking up the salt. Her nails were painted midnight bck, and were totally immacute. Just seeing them made Callie self-aware of the chips and imperfections in the mint-green manicure she'd gave herself about two weeks ago. Once the fry had picked up a respectable sodium coating, Ettie out it out of its misery and popped it into her mouth. “Not really–I have a meal pn.” She said.

  Meal pn…just those two simple words were enough to draw Calliope back to her dorm room at MISC. Cooking for herself at all was still a recent addition; for three long years she'd sustained herself on the selection of meals allotted to her by the meal pn all dorm residents had been required to enroll in. The food wasn't bad by any means–the in-house chef hand-rolled sushi for them on Tuesdays, even–but she was so shy that she often just grabbed whatever from the buffet, without speaking to anyone even to order. Or, she'd forget to eat something at a normal hour, and munch on dry, stale ramen noodle bricks to keep herself from passing out. Compared to back then, her retionship with food had definitely improved, no matter what Erika said.

  Calliope got lost in reminiscing, slowly working her way through her food. By the time her mind returned to the present, it was already too te to ask Ettie what she usually ate, or what dining hall she frequented or even what school she attended. With everyone eating, it would've been awkward to interrupt; she was left only to specute. If Ettie was still on a meal-pn, that meant she was probably an undergraduate, which would make her the youngest in the group. That narrowed her age to the 21-22 range–old enough to drink, but not so ancient as to be out of school. Knowing that they were roughly the same age instilled her with (probably false) hope: like most of Annette's bohemian friends, her chance of ever seeing Ettie again after tonight hinged on the random whims of the universe that decided who decided to attend parties. She'd never really given the rotating cast much thought before. It was easier to just let Annette be the gregarious one who knew everyone, and let herself remain aloof and remote from any new friends. She had the core three, and hadn't really wanted more. Until now; Calliope decided she wouldn't mind if three became four, and Ettie became part of the group for good. She'd have to ask her about that ter.

  When every fry had been picked off and eaten, after Mikey had belched loudly and put the scent of half-digested peanut butter in the air–Calliope wanted to vomit–it was time to get going. Annette paid the tab, everybody mumbled words of gratitude, and a few minutes ter the group stood outside in the cold again. Erika gave her goodbyes and ordered a rideshare on her phone. When Callie looked back, her form receded into the distance as she and Ettie followed behind Mikey and Annette again. The night hadn't warmed up one but, and had gotten colder, on the contrary. She shivered in her coat, gnced at her walking companion, and cursed under her breath. How in hell was Ettie so warm?

  They walked in silence for a block or so, before Ettie spoke. "I'm not really feeling like going back to the party, are you?" She asked. It was like she gave voice to Calliope's thoughts.

  "Honestly, yeah, same. Feeling pretty burnt out."

  "I live pretty close by, do you mind walking back with me?"

  Calliope considered the request. Extending the amount of time spent out in the cold wasn't something she felt thrilled about. But she couldn't really say no, and let Ettie walk home alone…plus, she was always running away from people, maybe it was a good idea for her to seize the moment. Make a new friend, all that bullshit. She could at least ask if she'd come to the next party.

  "Sure! No problem!" She replied. Ettie's radiant smile made it worth it; it pushed blood up into Callie’s cheeks, warming them. She stopped dead, and cupped her hands in front of her mouth to call out to Annette, who was already almost a block ahead. The words jumbled in her mind, and mouth, but eventually made their way out: "H-ey Annette, I'm gonna head out, 'kay? See you ter?"

  "What?" She turned around. "Aw, okay. You all set?"

  "Yeah! Thanks!"

  "Have a good night!" Before Annette's words even traversed the air, she'd leaned into Mikey and said something Calliope couldn't parse; she hoped it wasn't about her. "You too!" She shouted back, but there was little effort or force in it. On her right, away from the street, Ettie was leaning against a shoulder-height stone wall. The darkness of her sweater bled into the rock, making her look almost invisible.

  “You sure you don't want me to call an Uber, or something?” She asked. Now that they were alone, nerves began to creep back in. Ettie didn't really know her; what if she felt unsafe; what if she didn't like her? Worries danced through her head in an anxious waltz. Callie kept her face stoic. She smiled, waited for her response, and opened the rideshare app for a preemptive strike, if any would be ordered.

  “Nono, it's fine! It's not far!” Ettie reached a hand out to Callie’s phone, and waved it in dismissal.

  “Okay,” she lowered it. “So which way do you live?”

  “Oh, just follow me.” She pushed off the wall and started walking. Calliope followed close behind. “Alright.”

  The path to Ettie’s led first back the way they'd came–ABC was already dark and empty–and then took a literal dark turn. It led through a seedy part of town, an area with too-few sodium streetlights and abandoned buildings that Callie tried to avoid at night, if she could at all help it. If they followed it past wherever Ettie was going, they'd eventually end up at the base of the hill where she and Erika lived…but there were other, brighter, less graffitied ways to get there, so she rarely came that way. She took comfort in the fact that there didn't seem to be anyone else around, not even the occasional car. Even so…the silence and darkness of the route kept her on edge.

  “Hey, Ettie,” she whispered–why was she whispering? “How much farther?”

  The shadow in front of her stopped abruptly. Calliope almost ran into her; she tipped forward and had to spin her arms like windmills to keep bance. For one awful, horrible moment, she imagined that Ettie would turn and have the face of a demon…but it was just her pale, pretty face smiling back at her.

  “Almost there, sorry.” She said with a hush. “You can stay over, if you want, it's really te.” She continued walking.

  Walking home at night through a sketchy street and offering a stranger to sleep over…she was starting to think the woman had no self-preservation instinct. Even Callie knew the danger of those things, slow as she'd been to learn them. It had never been something she'd had to think about before she became an adult. But unless the stars and pnets had aligned, and Ettie was like her, she would know them, too. That made the line between confidence and recklessness unclear, on Ettie’s part. Callie hoped they would enter a safer part of town soon; she gave every shadow they passed an extra-long stare, to see if anyone was lurking in the darkness.

  It was good she did. After a few blocks of uneasy quiet, they passed by twin columns of run-down apartment buildings. On her left, in the deepest, inkiest darkness of the alley between one building and the next, she saw something move.

  Her brain told her to run; her heart told her to freeze. The tter took precedence. A disheveled man emerged, wearing a beige overcoat covered in stains. His eyes–dark pinpricks in whites reddened by sleep or substance–bulged out at her. His words came in in fits and coughs that were actually visible, tangible, in the cold night air. “Hey, dy, do you have any change?”

  The conversational lobe of her brain was still working even though her motor neurons had seized up. “N-no, sorry, I don't have any cash.” She answered. It was true; the only things in her wallet were pstic cards of varying persuasions or crumpled receipts from some long-forgotten purchase. She waited with bated breath as the man leered at her. Ettie stirred a little in her peripheral vision; she too, stopped in pce. Callie wanted to tell her to run, but any words she could say would be heard by the three of them alike, and she knew that it would only escate the situation.

  That turned out not to matter; it rocketed up to the danger zone all on its own. At the man’s right side, something shiny flicked out into the night–a knife. He lowered his head and advanced a step. “Gimme your wallet, then.” His tone was darker, now.

  It was time to run, then; her feet wouldn't move. Why wouldn't they–shit, this is really bad. It wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening. “W-wait, c'mon, I don't–” she stammered as he approached, throwing her hands up moreso in panic than defense.

  “You've gotta have–” he coughed. The rattling inhale that followed sounded horrible. “Something. Anything. Give it; don't wanna hurt you.” He pointed the knife at her with a raised hand, knuckles white with the strength of his grip; he was trembling. From the tremors and constricted pupils…oh, shit–he must be strung out.

  She whimpered out of the corner of her mouth in Ettie's direction: “help.” But there was no reaction, and she was too scared to remove her gaze from the man advancing on her to get a better look. He heard the word, though, and ughed: a delirious, unhinged sound in the cold night. “Help? There's nobody here! C'mon, why don't you help yourself, and give it?” he snarled.

  When he lunged at her, she knew. Time slowed to a sickening crawl: she saw the knifepoint flying towards her, saw the whites of his eyes grow rger and rger, saw the dark shadow to her right flicker, like a fluorescent tube whose phase of light and voltage was inverted. Calliope didn't have time to scream, or even to contempte her final words for her impending death. There was an explosion in her head, and her vision fshed to white; she thought at first he'd closed the distance and stabbed her in the skull, between her eyes. But it quickly faded, and her would-be attacker stumbled back and lost his footing. The knife flew out of his hand as his hands flew up to clutch at his face. It cttered on the sidewalk, and he screamed.

  “Argh–what–what the fuck, my eyes–I can't see! Shit!” He blubbered, writhing on the ground like a coecanth plucked from the depths of sea and time. Calliope stood there and watched, stupefied. Her head was still reeling, her eyes smoldered, and she was too afraid of what she'd see to shift them upwards from the rolling form of the man ahead of her. She already knew.

  But, she couldn't stay frozen forever; something compelled her to look up. There was a dark figure half-inside the shadow where the man had come from in the first pce. Ettie stood there with her hands in the pockets of her sweater. The single eye visible to her was a numinous pink, or purple, or…Callie knew better than to think about it too much. It'd always been that colour, or colours, the entire night, and she just hadn't noticed. It hadn't let her notice, before now. To her abject horror, It smiled, wide, and Its teeth were still that pearly-white–but this time there were far too many of them, beyond counting or cardinality.

  “Let's go home, now?” It said in Ettie’s voice–but it wasn't really a question.