Back inside the house, the kitchen lights are intensely bright. Lark can see in the fluorescents that Oli is worn out; his translucent, red-haired complexion shows off his exhaustion—blue crescents beneath his eyes where his veins surface. He drinks water from the sink and offers a glass to Lark.

Lark takes it but, tensed in Oli’s kitchen, he wishes it was something stronger, something to put him to sleep and quiet the night. Lark’s eyes throb and beat with an electric frequency. It’s probably only the micro-flicker of the humming tube lights, but the barrier between himself and the world feels thin enough his pulse might be keeping time with the house’s power grid.

In the kitchen window, Lark can see his reflection and the back of Oli’s head with the shaped v-line of his haircut. As usual, the sight of himself takes Lark off guard. He is there and solid. Not phasing into the world at all, just taking up space in it.

“We should call it a night,” Lark says, dredging up a smile for Oli. “Thanks for showing me the space station.”

Oli shrugs and admits that he loves any excuse to take out the telescope.

“Still,” Lark says.

“I’m used to staying up. I have observatory shifts, so my hours can be kind of weird.”

“That’s not great for insomnia,” Lark notes, thinking of the number of times he’s been advised to keep a regular schedule. “Must be hard.”

Oli says, “I don’t mind it. But I guess we should both try to get some sleep.”

Lark nods, waves a little as he turns to go back into the living room. “See you in the morning.”

Oli stops him though. “Wait a second. I still have your photos.” He takes them out in a messy pile, tidies them into a neat stack in his palm. The top picture is of Jules and Quinn’s backyard, the string lights and chairs that sat outside their house unused for a whole winter—that they kept out, determined to have an outdoor party in the spring, waiting for better times.

Max and Dana went with me to the house party Jules organised for Quinn’s 25th birthday. Their small house was crammed with people sitting on the floor in the living room, bands standing together in style-coordinated huddles. Jules and Quinn had decorated the backyard with string lights, put out chairs, but the weather had changed suddenly the night before. The pleasantly bracing early autumn cool that the Portland natives endured gladly became the frozen drizzle of winter, and everyone on Quinn’s long list of friends was inside. In his wheelchair in the kitchen, Quinn had hardly any room to maneuver, but he looked happy, everyone coming in turns to say hello, leave him a gift, convey their love in the distant, touchless way he demanded.

Too much hugging makes me nervous, he told me once. Someone squeezes too tight and my arms just go black. Bruised like an overripe pear.

Up close, Quinn was obviously high, leaning over the table and shaking his hair out of his face to look up at me with eyes so red I thought he might have had a matching pair of ocular hemorrhages.

Always love to see you. He blew me a kiss. Our favorite house guest.

All I ever did was sleep when I was here.

Exactly. Quiet. Tidy. Perfect roommate. He winked a bloody eye.

Max, looking at Quinn from a step behind me, tossed his head and snorted out an annoyed grunt.

Well, we’ll take you in when Max kicks you out, I guess, Quinn said, keeping his eyes on my bandmate.

With Quinn and Jules busy saying hello to everyone, I stuck to Max and Dana. Max handed me a beer from a brewery so small it obviously printed its labels in-house, applied them charmingly off-kilter, by hand. “Hipster shit,” he said, and perched on the arm of the sofa to join a nearby conversation. I stood next to him, waited to be introduced, wasn’t.

I wasn’t even halfway through my beer, but I suddenly felt like I’d chugged a bottle of Aftershock. Like I was a shot away from blackout drunk. I leaned back against the wall, let the susurrus of conversation wash over me, waited for the room to steady. I felt sick heat rising up my throat, even as the blood drained out of my face, and my hands felt numb.

Are you okay? Dana asked. She was sitting on Max’s knee, but she slid her foot towards mine, nudged the instep of my converse with the pointed toe of her ballet flat.

I shook my head and moved towards the back door to get some space.

The freezing air helped at first. The sharp winter wind on my skin was a shock to my addled nervous system, the scream of cold overwhelming my body’s sick alarm. Before long, though, I was shivering violently—cold and sick. I crouched down to put my head in my hands, put my beer down on the stone-tiled patio.

Jules found me like that after a few minutes, tipsy themselves. Why are you outside? they asked, sticking their head out the door. Too cold.

They came and knelt next to me, put an arm over my shoulder, their face close to mine. What’s wrong?

I gestured to my beer and they laughed. You’ve been here like ten minutes; you’re not that drunk.

I am, I grit out. Oh my God.

Was it spiked?

Max had opened it in front of me, so I shook my head.

Is your liver still busted? From the summer?

This seemed like the best explanation, but I shrugged, unsure what had eliminated my tolerance. Maybe the mono, or the alcohol-free months that followed my hospital visit.

Jules took me by the hand and dragged me back through the party, to the closed door of their bedroom and, beyond that, their en suite bathroom. I stumbled inside and closed the door on Jules.

It’s like old times, huh? Jules said, their laughter carrying through the wall. You know how much I worried after we left you at the hospital? Quinn teased me the whole time. I have a soft spot for sickly boys.

I made a low noise in my throat to drown out the sound of their voice.

Too much. Too much.