Friday evening, two hours before Hannah's show, fog settled into the streets of Chicago. Street lamps look a hundred years older in fog, Jon thought, then snapped a picture with his phone.

The ring was safe in the pocket of his slacks. Beneath the bandage, his tattoo was vivid and clean.

Gavin was already waiting at the Oasis when Jon arrived. Sam scrambled behind the bar to fill orders.

"Sam," Gav called when Jon sat down. "Give my brother a scotch and Coke."

"He can handle hard liquor?"

"He's gonna have to. It's his big night." He patted Jon on the back.

"No Aim tonight?" Jon asked.

"She's not feeling well," Sam said, then dropped a glass of brown on the bar. "She's at her máma's getting rest."

Gavin raised his glass. "To art, the future, and eternal love."

Jon hesitated, then said, "Cheers." He clanked his brother's glass and tasted his first sip of scotch.

"Good?" Gav asked.

Jon's cheeks puckered. "They should call it 'mouthwash and diesel fuel,' but it's not bad!"

Sam grinned and returned to the crowded bar.

Gavin nodded to the empty rectangle behind the bar. "Think Hannah'll finish on time?"

"I offered to help, but I'd just be in the way."

Gavin reached over and lifted the bandage on Jon's arm. "Tattoo healed?"

He jerked back and the drink sloshed onto his hand. "Yeah, but it still hurts."

"Let me see it."

This wasn't the way Jon wanted to start the evening. But his brother would see the atom anyway when he revealed the circle to Hannah. And that would be a worse time to explain his de-conversion...

Jon's anxiety tripled and he took another gulp of diesel. He removed the tape from his arm, lifted his sleeve, and raised the tattoo for Gavin's scrutiny.

"It's beautiful, man. Really incredible." He leaned forward and followed the intricate spiral around Jon's tricep and elbow. "Is that an atom?"

Another sip. "Uh huh."

"What does it mean?"

Jon wanted to shy away from the truth, to give his brother some half-assed answer about enjoying the pursuit of science... but he was tired of the dishonesty. "I don't believe in God, anymore, Gav."

Gavin leaned back in his stool and assumed a fatherly pose. "I can't say I didn't see it coming."

"I've been thinking about it a lot, and I just can't do it."

"You believe in science instead?"

"I don't really want to talk about it tonight... but yeah, I believe in science." Jon recognized the absurdity of that phrase, but didn't want to start a debate. "We'll grab another drink when things settle down. I can answer your questions."

Gavin twirled his glass on the countertop. "And the circle?"

"For the proposal."

"Nice." After a moment lost in thought, Gavin motioned to Sam. "Another round, bud?"

Jon shook his head. "I think one was enough."

"Loosen up, Jonny."

Jon covered his glass and shook his head. "Gotta be on my A-game tonight."

Gav scoffed. "I lost my A-game months ago." He looked to Sam. "Give me whatever's on tap."

Their friend obeyed and Gavin downed the first half. "I've gotta tell you somethin', Jonny."

"What's wrong?"

Gav shook his head. "It's actually pretty messed up..."

"I thought we were celebrating my engagement."

"We are... and I still think you should go through with it."

"Why the hell wouldn't I go through with it?"

"I need to say this now so you can make the right decision."

"Tell me."

"Jon..." Gav ran his knuckles through his hair.

"Say it."

"Hannah has a side she doesn't show you."

"What do you mean? What side?"

"A fucked-up side." He looked at his beer. "Shit..."

Jon could see the struggle in his brother's eyes. "What do you mean, Gav? Fucked up how?"

"She hurts herself, Jonny. She's into cutting."

"What, like emo chicks?"

"Something like that..."

He laughed. "You're full of shit. I've seen her naked, buddy. No scars."

"Does she wear socks to bed?"

Jon's heart fell through the stool and smacked the floor.

"She called me the morning she got T4. She was stressed from the decision. I helped her clean the cuts."

"You—"

"And that wasn't the first time."

"Is... is this because of the tattoo?"

"I was gonna tell you anyway. I couldn't stand to see you go through with this without knowing."

Jon's mind cranked like a wind-up toy. All those times she was hurting; the jokes about death, about switching brains to be normal... How often did she do it? What caused it? Why couldn't she talk to him about it? And why the hell did she talk to Gav? Suddenly, he wanted to cry for Hannah... to find her and hold her and kiss her and hug... to take off those socks and kiss her feet and bandage them up and beg her never to do it again.

"I'm so sorry, man."

Jon reminded himself to breathe. "I'm glad I know."

"There's more..."

He stared at his brother, unable to form the words to ask what.

"You can't tell her I told you this."

"Tell me."

"You promise you won't say anything?"

"Tell me."

"Remember the night Hannah flew home from college and I followed her into the bathroom?"

He nodded.

"She asked me to hold her."

Jon's throat began to close.

"That wasn't the only time. The day she got the Vaccine—"

"Stop."

"I didn't want to say anything—"

"I know."

"I'm so sorry, Jonny."

Jon found himself fingering the ring in his pocket. He looked away from his brother and keeled from the twisted sting of embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizing. I'm glad you told me. Seriously, Gav, I love you for telling me. But I want you to leave. Right now. I want you to get the fuck out of the bar and leave me alone." Jon raised his hand. "Sam! Give me another drink!"

* * *

Gavin's suspicion about his brother's beliefs had been confirmed. As a punishment, the proposal was ruined.

Fog enveloped the tallest buildings. Traffic lights hung like silent specters to guide him through the haze.

He checked his phone; two missed calls from Hannah and one voicemail.

Did Jon already call things off?

"Hey Gav, it's me. This stupid paint won't dry. I'm gonna skip the shower and change at Aimee's. No big deal. I'm fine... really. See you in a bit."

The change in Gavin was unexpected and immediate. Maybe it was Hannah's innocent voice, maybe it was God nudging him in the right direction, but by the time the phone hit the bottom of his pocket, he regretted everything.

My God... he thought. What have I done?

* * *

Hannah flicked the blowdryer over her final painting as if the motion would make it dry faster. Instead, it kicked up the ashy remains of her failed piece, forming a black plume that mixed with smoke from her joint.

She texted Jon again. Still no answer.

She turned off the blowdryer, tossed it aside, and watched the ash settle onto the paint. Wet or dry, she had to get it to Aimee's as soon as possible.

She pushed herself from the floor and stood over her work. It was a dark piece; white dots huddling in a spiral around a pitch-black circle at the core.

Say it's good, she told herself. She closed her eyes and scrunched her cheeks... then looked again. Say it's good, Hannah.

She closed her eyes again, so tightly that floating amebas appeared behind her lids. Look at your fucking painting and say it's good!

She opened her eyes. The painting was shit.

And—only minutes before her showing—a familiar urge returned.

* * *

The new sense of remorse followed Gavin home; up the stairs, down the hall, in the apartment, past the TV, camera, and cords.

He couldn't go to the party. He would apologize for everything in the morning. He would set things straight with Jon and beg for forgiveness.

Maybe Hannah will love me for my honesty.

"No!" he shouted out loud, then smacked his palms against his temples.

Maybe Hannah will love me for my honesty.

"Goddamnit!" he cried. "No!"

A knock at the door... anxious.

He lifted his head and heard it again. Violent this time. He tiptoed across the living room and squinted through the peephole.

Hannah.

"Gav?" Her voice permeated the faux-wood. "Are you there?"

She knows everything!

He had to fix this. He had to make it right.

He opened the door and she fell inside, her tears turning black like a blasphemous Madonna.

"I thought you weren't coming," he said.

"Take the painting." She pushed past him. "I need to go to the bathroom."

Her final piece rested against the hallway wall. It was taller than Gavin and barely fit through the doorframe, but he made it inside, leaned it against the entertainment center... then remembered the TV.

By the time his mind assembled the unfolding horror, Hannah had already locked herself in the bathroom.

The painting watched Gavin's manic deliberation; the texture, the contrast, the immediacy of the strokes and the gashes; he felt the anger burning beneath the pigment. It was a haunting piece, that obsidian circle and swirling white dots; a supermassive abyss with the little girl he once held kicking and screaming in the grass—swearing and punching the tree—buried not too deeply beneath the surface.

He turned on the TV.

Hannah. A crystal clear image. She pulled off her jeans, pulled down her underwear, and sat on the toilet. Her head dropped to her hands. Her hair covered her face.

Turn it off, Gavin.

Strawberries tangled in the strap of her bra.

Turn it off.

She finished but didn't flush. Instead, she pulled up her underwear and lowered herself to the floor with legs crisscrossing in front of the camera. She reached for her jeans, fumbled through the pockets, and removed a razor.

Turn it off, Gavin.

She pressed the knife between her toes, opened the flesh, then pulled it across the top of her foot.

Turn it off and help her!

The cut began to heal, so she did it again. And again. And again.

Her eyes met his.

No...

She wiped away the tears, blinked twice, and leaned toward the lens.

No...

Her hand grew and distorted as she reached for him through the screen. The image shook, then turned black as the camera fell to the back of the cabinet.

Gavin's face became putty as he clawed at his skin, pulling his lids from his eyes and his mouth into a clownish frown.

He darted to the bathroom door. He knocked. "Hannah, let me in."

"Stay the fuck away!"

"I need to explain."

"Leave me alone!"

He squeezed the handle, pushed down, and remembered the broken lock. The door swung open and Hannah stood before him, half naked and vulnerable against the bare white wall.

"Get the fuck out!" she screamed, then raised the knife to his chest.

"H— Honey," he stammered. "I'm so sorry."

"Fuck your sorry! Get out!" Her face contorted into a fallen mess of eyes, nose, lips, and skin.

"I love you, Hannah. I understand you and... I can take care of you! Remember the night at the hospital? I saw you first and we fell in love!"

"What... what the hell are you talking about?"

"Remember our shower? Remember how I helped you? You love me too."

She lowered the knife. She shook her head, then composed herself, broken but fearless against the tile. "This was never a love triangle, Gav." She dropped the knife onto her jeans. "I love Jon. I've always loved Jon. You were a friend. But I never, ever, loved you."

Gavin took two easy steps toward Hannah, grabbed her throat, and lifted her against the wall. She gagged and kicked, but he was too strong.

With a violent jerk, her underwear snapped. Unbuttoned, unbuckled; his pants fell as she thrashed. He could feel her watching as he pushed the full weight of his body against hers... watching from the mirrors, from the open door, from the camera... a thousand lifeless Hannahs spying as he forced himself inside—biting the strawberry on her shoulder—again and again until he came, pulled out, let her slump to the floor... then he fell against the tub and cried.

* * *

Jon's cell vibrated as he stepped through the ally behind the Oasis. It was Hannah again.

Thoughts about love and forgiveness fell to the wayside as the phone laid shaking in his palm. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Jon?"

"What."

"W- where are you?"

"I'm here. Where the hell're you?" He couldn't walk and talk at the same time, so he stopped.

"Honey..." she said. "I—"

"Lemme ask you somethin'."

"Jon—"

"Do ya tell Gav stuff ya don't tell me?"

"Baby..." She was crying.

"Does he make ya feel good?"

"Jon—"

"You know what I was gonna do tonight?"

"Please don't. Please not now..."

"Do you know what I was gonna do, Hannah?"

"Please, Jon—"

"I was gonna propose."

"No..."

"And now... now I don't even know if I should."

She fell silent.

Even in his stupor, Jon knew he crushed her. "We'll... we'll talk later." He ended the call.

* * *

Hannah waded through the mournful haze of the dank Chicago night. She tried to call Jon back. He didn't pick up.

She fell to the curb. She dialed the only other person who could help.

"Hannah?" he asked.

She dropped her head between her knees and sobbed. "Daddy?"

* * *

Saturday.

Jon waited for his brother in the McDonald's on Halstead.

The overhead TV prattled with more breaking news. "...that the President's scheduled speech will not be about ISIS in the Middle East, but about the wonder-drug, T4. Sources confirm that the President will declare life extension to be an inalienable right for all Americans. Our sources also confirm a new version of The Vaccine will be released by KOC within the year. Called 'T4.0', this simpler version of the controversial drug will retain the rejuvenating powers of the original, but will not grant the recipient an increased lifespan. If the president confirms these rumors in tomorrow's speech, it's safe to say that the prevailing controversy will dissolve with the advent of this historic decision."

Jon waited at a booth in the McDonald's on Halstead. He watched his brother approach, hands in his coat pockets, anger in his stride. Gavin spotted him immediately and slid in the seat across the table.

"I know what you did," Jon said.

Gav didn't respond.

"Hannah told her dad, and her dad told me."

Nothing.

"They left this morning, Gavin. She won't answer my calls. Joseph told me they're packing and leaving. For good. My fiancée... my wife... left. I will remember this forever. You will live with this forever." His lip quivered as he struggled with the rest of his attack. "You had two friends. One of them can never come back to this city. The other is sick of you." Jon thought of Hannah curled up in her father's car and heading toward California. "When I was younger, I'd think about the fact that, someday, I'd be forced to experience the death of the people I love. Then, six months ago, I thought I might never have to know that kind of permanence. But now..." Jon searched for redemption in his brother's eyes. "I never want to see you again."

* * *

At 1:00 PM EST, the President confirmed the rumors: T4 would be free for the public. And with that proclamation, Gavin's last hope fizzled and died. The vials were worthless. Hannah was lost. His brother disowned him. His parents would do the same.

Jon abandoned God, and God abandoned Gav.

Back in the apartment, beneath the bathroom sink, behind the remains of the broken camera, he found the clumsy handgun capable of firing a single shot.

He wrapped it in his shirt, headed for the door, then stopped short at Hannah's painting. He gazed at the condescending picture as tears crushed his face; that obsidian hole so dense it could collapse time and open portals into other dimensions. And for a split second, Gavin felt as if he had vanished, lost in the vacant pupil of another angry world.

* * *

The camera was destroyed. Shards from broken vials laid on his kitchen counter. Hannah's painting—what was left of it—keeled against the wall.

Standing waist-deep in the freezing calm of Lake Michigan, Gavin Nightly made his decision. It would be his final baptism. Humanity would condemn him, but God would forgive.

Soon, he would have true immortality.

He shivered as he pressed the plastic barrel into the stubble beneath his chin. Then he raised his head to heaven, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

END OF CHAPTER FIVE