The voice sounded bright in my mind. Warm. Hardly audible. The synesthesia sent my mind into chaos, and yet I weirdly felt okay about it. Calm.

And the voice hadn’t been real. I refused to believe that I was hearing things. People who ‘heard voices’ were either deluded or crazy. Maybe the stress and confusion were getting to me and generating false memories? A self-delusion? It was better than the alternatives.

Blaine was still staring, scanning me up and down for a hint of what had stopped me mid-rant.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second,” I lied. There was no need to mention the finer details.

Blaine shook his head, incredulous, “But you looked fucking terrified. You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” I said, truthfully, “Completely fine.”

"What did the FBI have to say?"

"O-Oh," I stammered. A part of me had forgotten about the events leading up to the voice in my head, "They hung up. It's fine, I shouldn't have called them."

At least, that's what the voice told me. Shit, how do I even make sense of this? Do I call the FBI back and see if the voice speaks to me again?

Blaine shrugged and reached for the open egg carton, crushing two eggs before I could stop him. I reached into the fridge to grab the carton, but Blaine held me back with his arm while squeezing more eggs.

"If we're going to do this, let's at least buy the eggs!" I suggested as he finished breaking the twelfth shell.

"Nah, I'm good," Blaine said, "I just wanted to finish the one we started."

"Alright. Well, I'm going to buy a dozen for myself."

"If you buy one, I'm buying one, too."

"That's fine. But I'm buying two dozen."

"Bet. I'm also buying two dozen."

I stared at Blaine's shoes, feeling trapped. My opponent was finally awake and playing the game. It had taken him a while, and maybe cost him a few critical opportunities, but he was awake now. And he was getting the upper hand.

"Can we buy some eggs for eating, too?" Brad asked, "I could go for some cooked eggs right about now."

Blaine and I locked eyes. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge Brad. The spirit of competition was in full swing now.

"Sure," Blaine finally said to Brad.

In the end, each of us bought a dozen and proceeded to check out. We stopped at KFC for lunch afterward, and then made our way home. Brad had insisted on driving, even though it was my car. I wasn't about to complain.

In the back seat, Blaine's phone chirped.

"'Yummy yummy cowboy juice?'" Blaine read the text aloud, "What the f- oh. Oh, you bitch."

I didn't turn around in the passenger seat. I knew he had figured it out.

"Well played, sir," Blaine said sarcastically, "What else did you do? Buy home insurance in case I decide to 'burn down my house?'"

I turned in my seat, "Your parents don't have home insurance?"

"No. Or they used to? I don't know," Blaine admitted, "Does it matter?"

I shook my head and returned my attention to my cell phone, which now showed the time to be 10:01 AM. Ten hours had passed since midnight. I withdrew the card from my front pocket. There was a black circle around the 30 next to 'Do nothing productive for 10 hours.' That brought my total to 41. Having only broken 11 eggs, 11 would be Blaine's score.

We got home and Brad made omelets for everyone. When half of his carton still remained, Blaine asked if he could take them. Instead, Brad insisted on cooking a 'big daddy omelet,' and nearly started a fire while doing it.

Blaine and I broke our own eggs and threw the messy cartons in the trash. Watching the numbers on our cards grow was hypnotic. I watched keenly as a six faded into the material and a seven was traced in its place.

This brought our scores to 53 and 23.

Brad resumed his previous task of producing art for our game. Blaine took a seat on the couch and resumed fiddling with his phone. I decided that Addy was being too silent and went outside to call him.

Addy answered on the second ring, "Hey, man, can I call you back in five, maybe ten minutes? I just got on Fortnite."

"Yeah," I said, "Call me after. There's a lot we need to talk about."

"Dude, I totally agree. I just need to clear my head first. Aight? Seeyah."

The phone clicked. A gust of morning air buffeted the side of my body, making it cold.

Why did Addy need to clear his head?

♠

“Alien gods,” Brad guessed, “Fucking with us or trying to understand humans and doing a shitty job at it.”

“Yeah, because that’s a great explanation for what’s going on here,” Blaine joked.

“Ok...,” Brad trailed, before launching into his next idea, “Magic is real, and there’s a wizard nearby fucking with us.”

“Why does every theory involve being fucked with?”

I sat up straighter on the couch, gears spinning in my head, “Maybe there’s a group or government that's created a secret new technology and they’re testing it out? Or using it to perform social experiments? Or terrorism?”

“So a terrorist wants me to ‘tell an original joke and get laughs?’ That doesn’t seem right,” Blaine smirked.

“Just trying to put all of the ideas on the table,” I explained, “I want nothing more than for this to make sense.”

Brad’s mouth made an O and his eyebrows shot up “Oh! What about that episode in Black Mirror where the boy has to deliver the cake?”

Blaine and I waited for him to finish his thought. Brad took his time with it.

“Brad. What about it?” I finally asked.

“That’s all. I was just getting that vibe, you know?”

"I don't," I told him.

My phone began to vibrate and I snatched it before it could shimmy off of the coffee table.

“What’s up, Addy?” I answered, saying his name for the others' benefit.

Addy’s voice was coming through in ragged gasps, "Somebody just tried to shoot me! A bullet came through my window! Can I come over? I'm coming over."

"What? What do you mean somebody shot at you?" I asked, "Did you actually find a bullet? Could you have heard something else? Like a pipe bursting or a car gasket exploding? Is this a prank?"

Blaine and Brad both stood from the other couch in unison. Blaine mouthed the words 'what the fuck?'

"No, I didn't take the time to find the fucking bullet!" Addy shouted over the sound of a car engine starting, "But I sure as hell saw the hole in the window, and I'm fairly certain I heard it whistle by my ear."

That settled it.

"Ok, I think I believe you," I conceded, "Should you be driving, though? If somebody actually wants you dead and this wasn't a fluke, you should be hiding!"

"Wants him dead?" Brad mumbled, "The hell?"

"I disagree with your assessment, actuarial risk-master 2020. Ever heard of fish in a barrel? If I'm the fish, I'm not flopping around in the bottom of that fucking barrel. I'm getting behind the wheel of a Kia Sol and driving the fish-fuck away. Also, relax. I'm safe. I just turned out of the neighborhood, and nobody is following me."

"Ok," I said, gathering my thoughts, which had been temporarily derailed by the fish metaphor, "Could you tell me why somebody would be trying to kill you?"

Was it shitty that I could think of a dozen reasons off the top of my head? Addy was my best friend - and I didn't say that lightly - but he wasn't as friendly with strangers.

"No fucking clue. I hit on like six chicks at the bar last night, but none of them came home with me."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Dude, I was at a dive bar. There were some weird goons there. Maybe one of them got jealous that I was talking to their crush?"

"Doesn't seem like a motive for murder," I commented.

"Let's agree to disagree."

"Sure. Actually, no. There's no such thing as 'agreeing to disagree' in real argu-"

The loud crack severed the end of my sentence, and I momentarily lost touch with reality. My head swam in slow motion, turning, looking for the source of the noise. Instead, I found blood.

"Alec? Was that a gun?" Addy asked, still on the line.

I hesitated, not sure what to tell him.

"Door is unlocked," I decided, before ending the call.

I threw my phone into the nook of the couch and rushed to Brad's side. There had been a spray of blood, followed by Brad's knees buckling. Blaine caught him before he could hit the ground. It was my turn to make an action.

So many possibilities. So many wrong moves. I observed Brad, trying to get a clearer picture.

He was bleeding profusely from his left wrist.

Ok. First-aid kit. Kitchen.

Wobbling legs carried me away from the scene. Shaky hands located the small white case above the refrigerator. Frantic fingers pried the kit open.

I carelessly dug through the contents, not even sure what I was looking for. My fingers swirled the bandages and ointment bottles around the edges of the box. Clockwise. Counter-clockwise.

Useless. I'm being useless.

Addy burst through the front door, saw Brad lying on his back next to Blaine, and then looked to me, "What happened?"

"Shot."

"Here, give me that," Addy said, running across the living room, grabbing the first-aid kit from my hands, and hurrying to Brad's side. He wasted no time locating gauze and tweezers.

I stood still, watching, my thoughts wandering in ten different directions.

This was becoming too much. I could feel my stress and panic building, creeping up on me, blindsiding me. Cards mysteriously appeared, the cards turned out to be imbued with advanced technology, voices in my head, Addy being shot at in his home, and now Brad was bleeding all over the tiles. It had all happened in less than twelve hours, escalating and ramping up at a pace faster than I could keep up with.

Worse yet, we didn't understand why any of it was happening.

I was antsy. I needed to move, needed release.

Brad was breathing slowly, his chest rising and falling ever-so-slightly where he lay passed out on the hardwood. His hoodie had been stripped off of him, and blood-soaked scraps of fabric littered the floor. After successfully extracting the bullet - it hadn't gone deep - Addy was tightly wrapping bandages around Brad's wrist.

Meanwhile, Blaine couldn’t decide which corner of the living room he liked best. And I stood watching, feeling like an idiot.

Every step Addy took was so obvious in retrospect, and yet I couldn't think of a single way of contributing.

That's when I realized the magnitude of my idiocy. There was something I should have been doing.

I made my way into my bedroom, seeking a quieter place to make a call. As I searched for the local police station in my contacts, I noticed a weird scene playing out in my peripheral vision. Through the window, I watched my neighbor as she pounded her steering wheel, her mouth open in a scream. Her hand twisted a key in the ignition, over and over, but to no avail.

My thumb slid past the O’s and into the P’s, where I finally found a number for ‘Police’. I tapped and the dial tone played for a moment, before abruptly being cut off by an automated message.

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

I glanced down at the screen. No wi-fi. No bars. In this town? We lived in a relatively wealthy neighborhood. That generally lent itself to reliable infrastructure.

I usually shied away from drawing causation lines, but the chain of coincidences was becoming too improbable. Earlier, I had asked my friends to come up with theories, and most of them had ended up sounding ridiculous. My own theories had been ridiculous, too.

They were beginning to seem less so.

Addy appeared in the door frame, sweat-soaked and panting, "Help us carry Brad to the car. We'll be safer on the road."

I nodded and followed him back into the living room. I could have questioned his plan, but everything he had done had been correct so far.

As we lifted Brad from the floor, the dread feeling continued to culminate. A feeling that one of our theories might actually prove to be valid.

I recounted everything that had been said, cross-referencing the theories with recent developments. One detail stuck out. Rung true. A point that Brad had made again and again. It felt like a betrayal of my own internal logic, but I had to acknowledge the obvious.

It was true.

We were being fucked with.