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being here this long, and this apartment has at least one other inhabitant. I don’t belong here. Probably a good idea to make myself scarce before whoever she lives with decides to show up.
    I’m preparing to stand when I spot one more album tucked away behind all the others. My heart, usually so even-keeled and dependable, stops cold. Dead in my chest. A weird, girly squeal comes out of my throat, and I look around, thankful the only other person in the apartment won’t be awake anytime soon. The thought should make me feel guilty, but worries about my manhood usually trump everything else.
    Turning back around, I lock eyes on the object as full-on lust slams into me. There, situated inside an oversized glass frame—protected and hidden from curious eyes that might be able to spot it for what it is, eyes like mine—is the only album I haven’t been able to find in all my years of collecting them. Not that I would be able to own it, but I’ve always wanted to see one in person. With shaking hands, I reach for the frame. I have to hold it, if only for a second. My whole body goes numb as I stare at Bob Dylan’s The Freewheelin’ in my calloused hands, and it’s all I can do not to let out a whoop. Websites tout this album as exclusive. Collectors tout it as impossible to find. EBay touts it as worth forty thousand dollars.
    I tout it as un-freaking-believable. Some kids wished for Disney World. I’ve always wished for this.
    I flip it over in my hands and try not to feel disappointed when I’m greeted by a sheet of laminated mahogany wood. I want to see the back, but like an idiot I’ve forgotten about the frame. Deciding that it probably isn’t a good idea to pry it open with the pocket knife tucked inside my pocket, I study the front again, still not quite believing what I’m seeing. Why that girl keeps an album like this hidden inside an Oklahoma City apartment building is beyond me. It’s ridiculous. It’s irresponsible. This thing deserves to be locked inside a safe deposit box, secured by keys and bars and bank tellers with stern expressions.
    I want to wake her up and tell her so, plus I’m suddenly flattened with a need to see the eyes of the girl who has the world’s best taste. But I don’t. I’d scare her anyway, since other than her drug-induced come-on that she’ll never even remember, she has no idea who I am. Probably best to leave it that way.
    With a regret I haven’t felt since being hauled away in handcuffs, I return the album to the shelf. It slips easily back into place, as though it was never disturbed at all. Another pang of disappointment runs through me at leaving it behind, but I’m not a thief anymore. I said goodbye to that life years ago with no regrets, and until now, I haven’t once been tempted to revisit it. Rising from the bookcase, I make another pass around the room. Kathryn might need to find her purse, so I prop it on the floor against her bedroom door. Hopefully she won’t trip on it in the morning, but her morning-after hangover issues aren’t my problem.
    I flip off the only light I turned on and head for the door. I’m halfway outside when a moan sounds from her bedroom. I blow out some air at the sound and roll my eyes heavenward. Why? Just…Why? It takes me only a second to contemplate what to do, another to drop my keys and wallet on the middle sofa cushion. Shoving my hands in my pocket, I wander toward her door as another moan hits, stronger this time. Silence comes next, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. I don’t need to see it to know it’s bad. I don’t need to walk in her room all the way to know it stinks. I don’t need to see her face to know I can’t leave. I don’t need to hear her voice to know she needs help.
    “Please help me,” she cries. I doubt she even knows she’s talking.
    I was wrong about my life sucking earlier this evening.
    Compared to now, the first time she puked was a great big bowl of