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the lid of his coffee.
    “Fuck, Mike. You didn’t tell them, did you?”
    “I was going to. I swear. It’s just that Dad tore into me as soon as I got home and—”
    “Okay, okay. So when are you going to tell them?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “How about tonight?”
    “I guess.”
    Dennis sighed. “This is what you want to do, right? I’m not pressuring you into anything, am I?”
    Of course he is. The voice returned. He always pressures you. Everyone does. Tell him that’s what he’s doing.
    “No, you’re not pressuring me. I want to.”
    Pussy.
    “Good. So tonight, then?”
    “Yeah.” Mike pulled the wad of twenties out and handed it to Dennis. “That’s the most the ATM would let me get, but I can give you the rest tomorrow.”
    “Cool. Then you and Eileen can talk about her car.”
    Instead of the usual talk about Mike’s parents, they discussed what movies were coming out that week and which were worth seeing. Dennis came in and out of the conversation as he struggled with the rental truck. He shushed Mike while maneuvering up the curved roads to the apartment building. They crested the hill intact and Dennis parked in front of the stairs.
    “Well,” he said as they undid the gate on the back of the truck, “I guess I get first pick on where my stuff goes.” The gate rumbled upward and he jumped into the back of the truck. “Let’s start with the couch.” They wrestled it down.
    Sirens sounded in the distance. As they carried the couch onto the sidewalk, the wail grew louder.
    “I think it’s coming up here.”
    The ambulance roared into view. A police cruiser was behind it. Both screeched to a halt in front of the truck and two EMTs sprinted up the steps toward the apartment. The cruiser doors opened and two officers followed.
    Dennis sat his end of the couch down and sprinted after them.
    “Shit. Dennis!” Mike fought his end to the ground and followed.
    A tide of bodies pressed into him as he entered the lobby, a sea of anxious faces staring down the hall. Mike caught up to Dennis as he pushed his way through.
    “What’s going on?” Dennis asked.
    “It’s Lloyd,” someone said. “He’s—”
    “Put it down, Mr. Trent.” One of the cops circled through Mike’s view. He craned his neck to get a better look.
    The EMTs crouched on the ground and pulled gauze from their bags. The cops stood in a defensive position, their hands hovering over their guns. Ahead of them a thin man, more bone than flesh, paced back and forth in the hallway. He was shirtless, his skin striped with red. His bare feet tracked blood in circles on the tiled floor.
    He waved a butcher knife in front of him.
    “Lloyd, please,” someone pleaded.
    “They’re everywhere.” He motioned with the knife.
    “Don’t you see? They’re crawling all over me. They’re so goddamned filthy.” He pressed the knife against his forearm and sliced off a thin ribbon of flesh. It hit the ground with a wet slap and blood drowned his arm.
    Someone screamed.
    “Fuck!” Dennis turned away.
    Mike didn’t want to look, but his eyes were drawn to the scene like magnets.
    The cops made a move toward Lloyd. He waved the knife again and they hesitated.
    “There are no bugs, Lloyd,” one of them yelled. “I swear it.”
    The sight of blood, the tightness of bodies pressing in around him, the screaming—it was too much for Mike. His stomach lurched one way, then the other. Acid bit at the back of his tongue and the bitterness of his coffee bubbled up into his mouth. He pushed away from the crowd and emptied his stomach onto the floor.
    “They’re not just bugs.” Lloyd pushed hair from his eyes, streaking his face with red. “They’re fucking filthy cockroaches. AND THEY WON’T GO AWAY.” He dug the knife into his arm again. The loud scrape of metal on bone echoed down the hall. Blood poured onto the floor like a water hose running and his arm dangled limp to his side.
    The cops rushed in, tackled him to the ground and