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pictures of waving flags. It was flipping to deep cable, and rewatching cheap action flicks.
    I watched every Van Damme movie ever made. They were all on TBS. He did the splits in every single one. Even if it wasn’t appropriate, even if he was just standing in the kitchen in his underwear, a bad guy would run in with a Taser and they would find a way to make Van Damme do the splits.
    I saw it so many times, I could write a thesis on it: The lateral extension of Belgian appendages in male power fantasies and its greater impact on archetypal roles in society.
    That was where we were now. But that didn’t answer the question: Where did it go wrong? It started with Marco, but did it end there? Thinking back, I’m pretty sure it was Jackie who first asked him to take me home. I don’t think it was his idea. What if she had never asked? Would we still be here? What if I had said no? What if … God, I shouldn’t even think it—what if I hadn’t gone looking for Jackie? What if I’d taken the hint at the police station and let it drop? What if I hadn’t chased Marco when he showed up at my apartment that night? What if … what if I’d seen Jackie being hollowed out, and I didn’t help her? What if I had just run?
    Nobody could have blamed me. Most people, I think, would have bolted. It’s too much to handle: caustic monsters; immortal, soulless things that only look like people; girls being mashed into jelly by giant gears; angels that rearrange people’s souls, getting rid of the pesky inefficiencies like humanity and morality and personality, and burning everything human away, like fuel. That’s enough. That’s enough to break somebody’s mind and send them running for the hills, no matter who might die because of it.
    I should have run. But I didn’t. I turned, and I jumped headfirst into the burning ball of light.
    Why the hell did I do that?
    But here’s the really disturbing question, the one I really don’t want to ask, the one that keeps me up at night, desperately trying not to answer it:
    How did they know I was going to do that?
    The Empty Ones, the other things like Marco standing around in the church that night—they were all waiting for me to do it. They celebrated when it happened. That’s what Jackie and Carey said. They flipped out. They clapped with their bloody hands and cheered with their broken mouths. They wanted me to do it. No, they didn’t just want it: They knew it would happen.
    But it was such a stupid thing for me to do. How could they possibly count on it?
    I knew the answer. I could feel it creeping up on me like some big, unseen predator. I couldn’t fend it off forever. I sat there running down recent history, night after night, like I could have found the answer in those events. But that wasn’t right, because it didn’t start with Marco. It started a long time ago. It started the night of the fire. The night my sister died, and I saw—
    â€œThe fuck off my stuff!” Carey hollered, bolting awake.
    He looked around the room with sleep-blurred eyes, expecting to see another hobo making off with his shoes, or his booze, or his shopping cart full of recycling, or whatever it was he valued. When he didn’t find one, he turned and spat on the floor, then rubbed his tongue against his filthy T-shirt.
    â€œGross, dude, come on,” I said.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, with utter innocence.
    â€œYou can’t just spit on the floor.”
    â€œHaha, yeah? That’s what you’re worried about? You know how many truckers fucked some cheap trick right there, on that exact spot? That’s pretty much all places like these are used for. I bet somebody even died there. I bet somebody died there while getting fucked by a trucker. My spit is the cleanest thing that will ever touch that carpet. My spit is practically shampoo, as far as this poor bastard carpet is