Jon waited until most of the patrons had ambled out of the bar before asking Sam and Gavin to step outside. Their walk lasted less than a minute before the wind forced them into the alcove of an abandoned apartment complex.

Gavin nodded at Jon's covered tattoo. "Is that the last of it?"

"Yep. For the next few years anyway."

Gav lifted the bandage and Jon smacked his hand. He wasn't ready to explain the atom to his brother... or the circle. "It's sensitive," he said.

"Pussy."

Another gust of wind swept through their hideaway, sending Sam's hair into a goldilock whirl. "Wanna tell us why we're standin' in the freezing wind?"

Jon removed the velvet box from his pocket and pried it open. "I'm proposing."

"To Hannah?" Sam said.

"Yeah, man. To Hannah."

Sam threw his fists into the air, dashed to the street, jumped, and howled like a drunken fraternity boy. "Jonathon Nightly is getting married!"

Smiling, pulled his friend back to the alcove."Shut the hell up! It's still a secret!"

His cheeks glowed red with wind and beer. "I'm just happy for you."

"When will you do it?" Gav asked, arms crossed to stay warm.

"Her showing."

"In front of all those people?"

"I'd do it privately if I thought she might say no."

Sam snatched the ring and held it to the lamp above their heads.

"She told me she doesn't care about expensive rings," Jon said. "Says it could come from a Cracker Jack box and she'd be happy. But she deserves the best I can afford."

"White gold," Sam said. "Classy choice."

"She says yellow gold is gaudy."

"Don't say that to Aim." He handed the box to Gavin.

"It's nice," he said.

""Thanks." Jon searched his brother's expression for any hint of sincerity.

"I'm proud of you, brother. Truly. Congratulations."

"Hot damn!" A crass grin blossomed across Sam's face. "I just remembered you've been abstaining!"

Jon feigned a smile. When Gavin wasn't around, he would fully express his excitement for sex. "It's chilly. Wanna head back?"

The men left their sanctuary and trudged against the wind toward the Oasis.

Gavin patted Jon's back. "You know I love you, right?"

He nodded. "I know."

* * *

"George Seurat," Hannah said.

"He was an expressionist," Jon replied, teetering on a ladder against the red wall of the Oasis. "He painted A Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte... with all the dots."

"Right!"

"What about Viktor Schreckengost?" he asked.

"That's the guy from Ohio," she replied. "He made the elephant sculptures?"

"What was he previously known for?"

"Dinnerware?"

"Nice! What about Russel Wright?"

"Jerk, it's my turn!" Hannah tried to think of a good name and handed a hook to Jon. "Joseph Cornell?"

He grabbed the hook, lined it up with his pencil mark, and screwed it in. "He's the box dude. The Art Institute has the largest collection of his work."

"Jonathon Nightly, Art Historian!" She held up her first painting. "What do you think of this piece, Mr. Nightly?"

He turned on the ladder, removed an invisible pipe from his pocket, and lit it. "This piece is quite interesting. I find the juxtaposition of social tensions and figurative subjectivity to be a rare confluence of the external struggles of the human condition. The play of light and shadow suggests a deep yearning for both dissonance and disorder. Also, it looks like a vagina."

"You're a guy. Every piece looks like a vagina."

He hopped off the ladder and touched her cheek. "But seriously, it's wonderful." He held the other side of the canvas, and they lifted it to the newly-installed hook. Hannah straightened it while Jon moved the ladder, then they stepped back, crossed their arms, and studied it.

"You're a genius," he said.

She shook her head. "It's a mess."

Jon shook his head. "I used to beat myself up over my drawings in college. I had so many sleepless nights, tossing and turning, wondering why my work sucked. But every so often—maybe once in every fifty drawings—I was able to stand back, look at my work objectively, and admit to myself that it was good. In two years of watching you create awesome art, I've never seen you do that."

"I'll say it's good when it's actually good."

The next four pieces went up quickly. One more on the red wall, one across from the bathroom, and two in the sofa lounge. The seventh piece would hang on the brick behind the bar... but it was still laying unfinished on the floor of her studio.

"I've got a long night ahead of me," she said, then buried her face in his chest.

His arms pulled her close and his lips kissed the top of her head. "Take all the time you need. Tomorrow night is gonna be incredible."

* * *

Was it hard for Jon to tell him about the engagement? Or was it easy? Maybe it was fun. Maybe Jon had relished the moment, dropping the news in the wind and watching his brother quietly crumble.

Maybe Jon knew about the quarter dose.

A soft buzzing brought Gavin back to the dreaded here-and-now. Back to his pit-stain apartment. Back to his Walgreens shirt and tag.

It was Hannah.

She hasn't called in weeks, he thought. Maybe this is it. Maybe she broke it off. Maybe she wants to tell me the good news! (Maybe maybe maybe maybe...) "Hey there," he said.

"I have a big favor to ask."

"Anything. What's up?"

"The last piece is..." her voice fell away.

"Hannah?"

"I tried to like it... I tried to tell myself it was good..."

"You'll figure it out, hon—"

"I burnt it. I have to start over."

"You burnt it? Where?"

"In the studio."

"Jesus. Are you—"

"I'm fine."

"Promise?"

"I promise." She breathed in.

"Need me to bring coffee?"

"I might be a little stoned..."

"I can be there in ten."

"No... I'm good."

"What was the favor?"

"I'm gonna be at the studio all day tomorrow and I'll need to wash up before the show. I don't want to go all the way back to Evanston or Greektown just to shower and change, so I was wondering if I could stop by your place."

"Of course. I'll be here all day."

"I could change at Aimee's, but I don't wanna walk in the bar all grubby when people are waiting for me."

"I don't mind at all."

"I'll be there around eight... you can walk me to the show?"

"I'd be honored."

2013 / Year 0

October

Six months earlier.

X-acto on the toilet seat.

Blood on her feet.

Curtain closed.

Gavin was fumbling for something to stop her pain. But Hannah didn't want to stop the pain. The pain was the point. "Gav?" she said.

"I'm still here, hon."

"Will you hold me?"

A clatter of medicine bottles. The unsnapping of jeans. "Of course."

The rattle of the opening curtain.

In another life, she knew she needed Jonathon. But in the clusterfuck of this god-forsaken decision—the pressure from her father, the kindness from her someday lover—she pined only to escape. And as Gavin stepped into the shower and sat behind her, she did.

Peroxide in his hand. Open bottle. He soaked her feet.

Escaping with Gavin wasn't the same as escaping with Jon. It wasn't pleasant or warm or safe. Gavin reminded Hannah of who she really was... a child who let her mother die. She leaned into his chest and accepted the pain. The blood. The bubbles. The melting dye from her hair. Red, white, and blue swirling down the drain as Gavin re-capped the bottle and touched her skin.

She reached behind her head and held the back of his hair. She pulled his face against her neck. Closer and closer until his kiss opened and teeth bared against her skin.

When he knew what she wanted, he took control. Neck and arms he kissed her, marks deep enough to see, but not to last.

She could feel his desire. He wanted to break the seal, to free her body, to give her all the things she thought about when her boyfriend fell asleep.

She guided his hand along her outer thigh, moving in, inch by inch; masculine fingertips against hopeless skin. She wanted him there. So desperately she wanted his hand to move just one more inch, to push, to drive, to help her escape.

But he stopped.

She tugged at his hand, but it remained fixed on her leg.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Reality began to seep through the murk of Hannah's dream. Her father. Her boyfriend. Her decision. "Please," she said, pressing her body deeper into the cave of his chest. "Please!"

Gavin's hand withdrew from her thigh. The water began to cool. "I'll take you to get T4," he said. "But I can't do this. Not yet."

Reality began to emerge from the murk of Hannah's dream and she wanted it gone. Her father. Her boyfriend. Her decision. "Please," she said, pressing her body deeper into the cave of his chest. "Please!"

Gavin's hand abandoned her thigh. The water began to cool. "I'll take you to get T4," he said. "But I can't do this. Not yet."

2014 / Year 1

April

Six months later.

Gavin's tub was filled to the brim. The slightest movement would disturb the calm and send water cascading to the floor. His shirt bubbled up like a dead jellyfish. Denim clung to his thighs. Only his face broke the surface.

The bathroom was spotless—white, antiseptic—and smelled of ammonia. The only blemish was the broken doorknob.

Basting and brooding in tepid bathwater; where were you? he asked. Where were you when I needed you?

Even with his ears underwater, Gavin could hear the buzz of his phone. He moved. Water broke the rim and gushed to the floor. It was a video message from Chris.

A scream of pure jubilee filled the bathroom as his friend leapt from an airplane with an instructor attached to his back. His lips and cheeks flapped in the wind as the plane shot away in the distance. Seconds later, a brilliant burst of color filled the frame as their parachute opened, jolting the men into a peaceful drift. Chris's smile spanned horizons as the Earth curved away behind him.

The video ended and Chris sent another text. "every day i say to myself, 'you are immortal. take what you want. experience everything.'"

Gavin dropped the phone to the rug, closed his eyes, and slipped his face beneath the water.

You are immortal.

Take what you want.

Experience everything.

* * *

Gavin, disguised as any other Walgreens shopper, stared at the cheap electronics section.

Did God care if the sinner was self-aware? If Gavin asked God to help him stop—if he truly begged with righteous intentions—was it still wrong if he went through it? Or were these prayers simply his own justification to make him feel better about his actions? Was that all his prayer was? The approval to continue doing wrong?

He picked up a camera, turned over the box, and scanned the specs. It recorded high definition video and connected wirelessly to his computer. That's all that mattered.

Gav had only seen Hannah naked once, and the more he relived the memory, the easier it became to distill the sensuality from the horror. He no longer had flashes of blood soaked feet when he dreamt about their shower... her body... her breasts mounted firmly atop a lean torso, the clean strip of fur he assumed had been shaved for his brother's arousal during their "anything but" escapades.

But memories were static. He remembered a few details, but could no longer separate the real from the invented. A memory wasn't a video he could rewind, pause, and watch again and again and again.

But this was.

Back in his apartment, lights out, Gavin opened the box and tossed the styrofoam to the floor. It was a shitty camera, light-weight with limited features, but it would do the job.

Next, he unscrewed the cabinet door beneath the bathroom sink. He built a pyramid of white towels in the center of the open cabinet, then placed the camera on top. With a little finesse, the lens was barely visible to the naked eye.

The knocking was subtle at first; so subtle that Gavin brushed it off as sound from another apartment. But it happened again, a little louder this time, and his neck stiffened.

After the third knock, he turned off the bathroom light, closed the door, scrambled to the living room, and peered through the peephole.

It was Aim.

He opened the door after her fourth knock and asked, "What's up?"

She didn't respond.

"Aimee? You okay?"

She shook her head. "I need it."

"It?"

"T4," she said. "I need it."

It took another two seconds before Gavin's mind caught up with the conversation. Finally, his brow lifted and his eyes widened. "What about Sam?"

"Sam will never know."

"Of course..."

"Bebé." Aimee took his face in her hands and bore into his eyes. "Sam... will never... know."

"You can trust me, Aim."

She released his face, looked to her feet, and nodded. Her hands trembled.

Gavin touched her arm and guided her toward the couch.

"How much?" She unsnapped her purse. "Mis abuelos gave me two-grand, and I can pay the rest over time... with interest of course."

Gavin picked up her purse and set it on the coffee table. "I told you months ago, The Vaccine is yours."

She shook her head. "I'll set some money aside every week and I'll pay you back—"

Gavin smiled. "Always a business woman..."

"I know you need the money."

"You're family, Aims."

"Free drinks then. For life."

"Chris too? He risked as much as—"

"Deal."

Gav looked at her with tired eyes. "You're sure this is what you want?"

"Si, bebé. I'm sure."

He ambled to the refrigerator and removed the leather satchel from the top shelf. "This'll only take a minute."

* * *

Gavin expected Aimee to cry. Instead, she remained stoic through the entire process and left with little more than a thank you.

Another twenty-five thousand down the drain, he told himself, then immediately regretted the thought. Helping Aimee was the right thing to do.

He trashed the dirty syringe and capped the iodine. He opened the fridge, then rolled the quarter-vial back into the satchel.

Three-and-a-quarter vials left.

Almost half of The Vaccine was gone. But if he split the rest into quarters, there were still thirteen watered-down doses remaining. At twenty grand a shot, that was still a $260,000 to split with Chris whenever he got his ass back in town.

And then everything would fall into place.

He remembered again the day Hannah received The Vaccine... the day they took a shower. Her body was exactly the same today as it was then, and he could think of nothing more erotic.

Thirty minutes later, the camera was connected wirelessly to the computer, and the computer to the TV. Gavin pushed a button to change the input and the bathroom appeared on the screen in glorious high definition. He could see the toilet, the shower, and the edge of the door.

Technology, he thought.