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unrequited lust.
    She stands in the doorjamb, as if unsure she's welcome, staring down at James. Young, mid-twenties; her red hair pulled over her slender shoulders is offset by an oversized black cashmere sweater. Irish ancestry most likely, by her fair skin tone and blushed cheeks. Then all the color suddenly drains from her freckled face. Martin looks back down at James as John peels back his flannel shirt.
    Torso still defined, but red, purple and gray bruises spot his flat, tight stomach. A three inch gash across several ribs is oozing blood but has started to clot. White of bone presses under his skin below the gash along his right side. It’s disgusting.
    “Oh, my God. He’s a mess.” Kate whispers. She draws in a quick breath, her soft mouth quivers. She blinks and tears slide down her cheeks.
    “Lying flat will keep the pressure off his lungs.” John lifts James’ eyelid and shines a penlight he’s retrieved from his lab coat pocket in his eye. James doesn’t stir, his black eye stares ahead blankly. “It’s either a concussion, or drugs, that concern me.” John lifts James’ other eyelid. “Concussions are tricky. Bleeding in or around the brain can cause seizures, coma.” John releases James’ eyelid and it closes. “And it’s even trickier if he’s on something.” Then he unbuttons James’ shirtsleeve and pushes it up his forearm. “God damn son of a bitch,” he whispers.
    Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He hears Kate gasp.
    James’ wrist is callused, bruised, the skin stripped to red in parts, like irritation from restraints. But even more disturbing is the long vertical cut on the inside of his forearm. The jagged red scar runs from the base of his wrist, six or more inches up the middle of his arm. John unbuttons James’ other shirtsleeve and pushes it back. His left arm is equally disfigured.
    “These wounds are fairly recent, maybe a few weeks or so old.” John runs his fingers gently over the cuts. “And they’re not defensive wounds.” He glances at Kate. “You know anything about this?”
    Kate stares back at him and shakes her head. “I met him two hours ago, when he smashed into me.”
    Martin is sure he’s going to be sick. “Why would James do something like that?”
    “I don’t know, Martin. But it looks like he was serious. I think your friend is in some major trouble.”
    It annoys Martin how John phrased that. My friend , like he hadn’t known James for the last fifteen years, too.
    “My uncle Calvin killed himself.” Kate stands rooted to her spot in the doorway and speaks just above a whisper. “Sliced his wrists and bled out in the tub. I was the first one in the bathroom. I was six. I remember because it was right after my birthday party. I was going to show everyone what a big kid I was taking a bath all by myself.”
    Martin tastes the tofu curry at the back of his throat and swallows repeatedly to keep lunch down. John is engrossed in examining James and does not acknowledge she’s spoken. Martin hates that. Lately, John does that to him all the friggin’ time.
    “I’m sorry,” is all Martin can think of to say. And suddenly he remembers the rumor. It was a few days after Ian’s funeral. Who was it that told him, James was busted for meth at Heathrow on his way home, and had to do mandatory rehab? Martin didn’t give it a lot of thought at the time. It seemed absurd. He’d known James to indulge in various amphetamines that work cronies supplied him during sessions. Working twenty hour days, most everyone did something. Martin, and other friends of Bill W., lived on triple espressos. James was addicted to music, not drugs. Martin had never known James to use meth, or any hard drugs, and he’d never be so stupid to carry it overseas. Gossip abounds in the Industry. Martin had figured James was totally immersed in studio. It was easy to lose James. It happened often.
    John pulls the comforter up to the middle of James’ chest and tucks