“We met with the producer Max had been talking to.”

There’s something off in Lark’s voice, but Oli isn’t sure what it means. “Did the gig go badly?” he asks.

“It went fine. I mean, it was a struggle. For me. But it was—you know.” Lark shrugs. “It was a Squires of Gothos show. It sounded the way it sounded. Like…bad.”

Oli laughs.

“We were really lucky. I mean—I was really lucky. The gig was what it was, but the venue was cool. We met some good people there. Jules—the producer—they saved my life.”

“Yeah?”

Lark believes, absolutely, that this is true. It would have been easy to ignore him when he arrived in Portland. Max made friends easily, talked and talked, but Lark was shyer. And he was with people, with Dana and Max—anyone could have been forgiven for leaving them to watch out for each other. Jules, though, had immediately seen what he needed and had gotten it for him: anti-nausea medication, a real friend. Lark still admires it.

“Do you ever meet someone who just knows what to do?” Lark asks. “That was Jules.”

Oli understands this. He used to think, sometimes, that as he got older, he would become one of those people. Even though he’s edging into his late twenties and self-sufficient—a researcher, a Ph.D. and, by some measures, successful—Oli still doesn’t feel like an adult. Outside of his routine, he can’t deal with much.

“Sure. Adult goals kind of people,” he says.

“Yeah,” Lark agrees. “But I don’t just mean competent. I mean—I don’t know. Giving? I find it hard to be that kind to people. Like really, unashamedly kind.”

Unashamedly is perhaps the key. Lark knows he is generally nice. If someone asks him for something or obviously requires assistance, he is quick to help. He tries to be aware of others’ feelings. But where there’s even a sliver of doubt that his presence might be causing embarrassment or is somehow unwanted, he is usually too anxious to push. He doesn’t like to offer himself too forcefully.

This is a shame, he knows. The few true, radical acts of kindness he’s experienced happened contrary to his own stubborn refusal of them, and in spite of his boiling shame.

He thinks of Jules’ hand on his back.

Lark used to touch his friends, to comfort them, but only friends he knew well. He’s not sure there’s anyone he would dare comfort now.

When we arrived in Portland, I had the window open in the backseat, my hair whipping around in the wind. It was a crisp, clear day—the false promise of a rare rainless summer. Our coast-to-coast odyssey had taken five days; I felt like I’d been sick forever but would have believed anyone who told me we’d left the day before.

Max had moved us across the country to impress a producer he only called—consciously casually—Jules, and we arranged to meet them in a retro diner down the road from the venue we were meant to play at in the evening. I was feeling barely well enough to be unpacked from the car, and Dana guided me to the booth nearest the bathroom. She let me sit next to her with my head on the table. When the waitress took our order, she ordered me some dry toast and a ginger ale.

Max tapped the back of my head with a spoon when the producer arrived, and I sat up, tried to act human. Jules was an attractive, androgynous person. Their short hair was dyed a pastel pink, and they were wearing a mint green button-down, candy-colored lipgloss. Their confectionary sweet fashion didn’t match their solemn expression or the sharp, discerning eyes behind their oversized glasses.

Jules slid into the booth and listened to Max introduce us. They ordered a coffee and thanked us for driving all the way, seemingly a little worried by our enthusiasm. Jules said they only ran a small label, described a modest line-up for the evening, while Max made every tiny gig we played back home sound more important than it was. I started feeling faint and rested my head in my hands. I tried not to draw attention to myself, but Jules was sitting right across from me, and when Max finished singing the praises of Jules’ label’s last release, they asked if I was okay. I lifted my head to nod. Dana, though, started to tell them how sick I was.

Oh, no, Jules said, gently. They didn’t take their eyes off me, even though it was everyone else who was talking. What’s wrong?

Jules seemed almost indignant when they uncovered how long I’d been sick, how severely, how little had been done. They refused to talk about the gig and left the diner; we saw them talking on their phone out the front window before biking quickly off. Max started fretting right away, but in twenty minutes, they were back with two big bottles of Hydralyte and prescription Zofran their husband had donated to our cause.

Drugs first, they said, then drink.

By the time we left the diner, I’d managed to keep a down a piece of toast. Jules drove with us to the venue and forbid me from helping Max unload the car. Dana carried in my pedals, and Max stared daggers at me while he hauled my synths through the door. I sat on the curb and watched.

Jules had gone inside first to sort things out with the club owner but came out and sat with me once things settled. How’re you holding up?

I told them I was okay. The pill they’d had me dissolve under my tongue had helped, and I felt better than I had in days.

Are you sure you want to play tonight? Jules asked. It’s really okay if the answer is no. We’ll arrange something else.

It took me a while to answer. The idea of canceling, strangely, had never crossed my mind, even that morning when I probably couldn’t have stood up for an hour-long set, much less played it. I told Jules it would be fine, I’d be fine.

Jules just put their hand on my back, rubbed a circle over my shoulders. I leaned into the touch, still too ill to be surprised by the familiarity.