This was not particularly what Eve wanted to be doing at this time of night—going to some stranger's house to pick up Oscar—not because she didn't care about him but because she did. This was the first time in a few weeks that she'd had to bail him out of such a situation; in fact she'd wondered if perhaps he'd stopped the drugs, because she had not received his late-night calls as frequently as she had in the past. Now, though, she questioned whether all of that had still been going on, just under her radar. Maybe Oscar had been as undisciplined as before but had just stopped calling her. Even now, this time, it had not been his voice on the other end of the line, beseeching her assistance, but the voice of some stranger who had only identified himself as "Joe." While the caller had assured Eve that Oscar was all right (alert enough to give Joe her phone number, apparently), he had noted that the man was in no condition to hold a phone conversation. Joe had given Eve his address and asked that she come as soon as possible, because he apparently had to get ready for classes in a couple of hours (it was not late night, after all, but nearly four o'clock in the morning).

Oscar had been a bit off, lately, Eve noted. She'd seen little of him, because he'd been very busy with school projects and promoting his work with the aid of one of his professors. He'd spent late nights in the university's studios, which were only open for free use during the hours the night janitors worked; during the day, they were full of students in various classes. Eve had suggested he attempt to locate and rent a real studio—something small but all his own—so he wouldn't be subject to creating only during the limited confines of Corland's hours. He'd seemed oddly opposed to the idea at first but had, the last time she'd seen him, expressed that he'd been thinking about it a bit more. They'd seen one another sporadically the last few days: twice he'd visited her at the writing lab, and twice he'd stayed the night. But Oscar had recently grown inconsistent in his habits; Eve had assumed it related to his studies, and she'd also inferred (though perhaps erroneously, she now guessed) that his work had kept him too busy for much drug abuse.

Eve had never liked Oscar's drug habits, though she'd said little—if anything—about his methods of release since they'd been together. She knew he was often pained with strange sadnesses, moods that brought him down into temporary depressions; though he never spoke to her of his emotions, Eve knew Oscar's mutable disposition—his transitory temperaments; he was no good at hiding them, though he likely believed he was. She had an inclination his frames of mind were subject to imbalances he felt in the world around him . . . inequities in his perception of what life and art and soul should be. Oscar was incredibly sensitive. He never talked about being so, but his mannerisms and shifting moods betrayed an underlying sensitivity—one that swayed with a back-and-forth, pendulum-like rhythm, guided by undeniable proofs that life could be unkind and not always beautiful. It was beauty Oscar strove for, and when he couldn't find it, he became overwhelmed; his heart was unable to cope on its own . . . sometimes, he just needed to forget.

Eve knew neither what sorts of substances Oscar was into nor with whom he shared those sordid moments of his life. While she'd worried for him periodically, each time she considered broaching the subject with him, either the words stuck in her throat or Oscar's mood would suddenly revert to its cheery, boyish state—the one for which she loved him most—and so the conversation had never been had. As of recent, she'd quietly, contentedly let her concerns fade into the background of her cluttered mind. But now, she realized she'd made a mistake. Whatever had gone on tonight had to be more serious than anything up until that point—Oscar had always been in control of himself (as far as Eve knew), but the fact that some other person had to call her was painfully worrisome—not just because Oscar had to be pretty out of it but also because, even if he had been cognizant enough to call her, she wasn't sure he would have . . . The notion that he didn't trust her upset her even more than she wanted to admit to herself.

She didn't want to drive so late, alone, in this dark night, into an unknown neighborhood where the rows of townhouses were seedy, dimly lit, and void of human life. She'd wanted someone to go with her, but it was, of course, far too late (or early) to be making calls. Eve knew Dawn had gone out somewhere (she'd tried to coerce Eve into going, but the sisters had not been able to fit their schedules together; it was a weeknight, and Eve had to be at Toast quite early), and besides her sister and Oscar, there was no one else Eve knew well enough to call so late. At least Oscar would be with her shortly.

The addresses were difficult to see. Eve could feel the little bird in her heart grow calmly querulous. A darkness hung about this part of the city, brought on more by her uncertainty of its layout and safety than any sun-cycle related phenomenon. Her music seemed raggedly discordant against the stillness, so she turned it off as she slowed her car. Then, though, Eve heard each little noise her old vehicle made, and she wondered if any windows in the buildings lining the streets held occupants, souls behind eyes behind glass, watching her in the shadowed secrecy of their rooms. She wished suddenly to be in her own bed—maybe she'd been given an incorrect address; she couldn't see any of the numbers—but the moment the thought crossed her mind, she spotted, beneath a mailbox nailed to the wall of an eaved stoop, the numbers five, six, two. Eve parked rather poorly, locked her car, and approached the house in the silent darkness, hoping she would soon be getting back into her old Toyota and driving far away home. The address numbers were of peeling black paint, stenciled onto a cracked tile, which she noticed as she climbed the cement stoop steps. The porch was littered with cigarette butts; old bottles lined the ledge, as if someone had displayed them for neighbors to look at. A couple of mittens were growing moldy scattered amongst some leftover fall leaves, and dirt was piled into the corners. A pair of old boots and a trashcan lid were holding up one slanted end of a rotting porch swing. This scene of disarray was disconcerting, and Eve quickly rang the buzzer, hoping the blinking porch light above her wouldn't pop out.

Within seconds, the door was gruffly pulled inward, and she found herself face-to-face with a strange-looking individual, the dusty, crisscrossed metal fibers of the screen door causing his already-indistinct face to appear more angular than it might have been. Neither of them spoke before he opened the door to let her in, nodding to show her his acceptance. Eve stepped across the threshold, her stomach beginning to swim with nervousness, though not so much from the dejected condition of the house as from this strange boy's presence. He was of average height and stature, but in the face Eve had seen at the door and in the movements of the person walking down the hall in front of her, she sensed a slyness . . . an oily cunning . . . as if this teenager had known who she was, or as if he was wise beyond his years.

The house felt oddly awake for an early, early weekday morning. There was television noise emanating from at least two different places: news drifted down the stairs in a strange static, and an infomercial fizzled between intermittent bits of blue light from the room to the left of the hall through which she was being led. There was also the sound of the shower running on the floor above. The carpeting in the hall floor looked an avocado green color, though it was difficult to tell in the lighting; Eve felt her toes stubbing into its holes. The paint on the walls was peeling, junk seemed piled everywhere, and the place just had an overall wet, musty smell.

When they entered the kitchen, Eve's eyes narrowed from the sudden contrasting brightness. The room was lit by a fluorescent bulb, which cast an artificial daylight across the cracked linoleum tiles, torn paper walls, and dirty dishes piled in the sink. Everything was so contrary to the cleanliness and organization of her own life that Eve was less stunned to find Oscar in such a situation than she'd initially felt she'd be. He fit here, she sensed, taking note of the slumped figure she knew to be her love propped up at the kitchen table. Oscar's golden curls were limp and etched with a greenish glow beneath the fluorescent bulb; the color hurt Eve's eyes. She couldn't see his face, though she knew he was alert because his fingers were playing with the edge of the stained tablecloth. He was ashamed. She felt it like a block boxing in her heart. Eve had never felt more isolated then she felt that moment, there, in that filthy kitchen, where a man she loved sat so cruelly naked and dejected.

"I had to give him a shot," the teenager explained.

Eve knew he'd been talking the whole time, but she'd heard nothing until that point. "A shot?" She heard her tinny voice as if it was not her own.

"Yeah, I had to give him some—"

"No—don't tell me. I don't want to know anything about it. Is it okay for me to take him home?"

The teenager sniffed, shrugged, leaned up against the door frame, stuck his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. He's a little out of it, probably in some pain, but he's okay. Maybe needs to lay off the hard stuff for a while, you know? Was hallucinating something awful for awhile, and—"

"I'll just go, then," Eve cut him off again, feeling her stomach swirl the longer he talked. She didn't even know what to say; she just wanted him to stop talking, the greasy rodent-like boy with a sly look in his face—as if he knew something she never would, as if he was mocking her, as if he sensed in her all the ignorant, blind trust in the world. She just wanted to leave. She put her arms under Oscar's shoulders and attempted to hoist him up, but Oscar was still too out of it to control his body enough to rise and stand on his own. Eve heaved an exasperated sigh after a couple of failed efforts, focusing entirely on the task at hand, but then she suddenly felt assistance from somewhere, and it took her a moment to realize that the teenager was helping her. Her gratitude was clear in her features; she masked her unease well. Together, the two of them managed to force Oscar to his feet and help him stagger down the hallway, to the front door and out onto the porch. Comments like "There you go—" "No! Wait, let me balance him . . ." "I've got it, come on, then," were traded between the young woman and the adolescent, and it took only several moments (that felt longer than they lasted) to get Oscar where he needed to be: the passenger side of Eve's car.

As Eve slammed the door on Oscar's side, she nearly ran into the teenager, who was standing so close to the car that he was practically on top of her. Starting, Eve wiped imaginary sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. "Thanks for all your help," she said, honestly yet with some reservation. "I . . . I don't know what would've happened to him if . . . if you hadn't found him." She felt something heavy in her throat.

"He'd probably be dead," the teen said matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders and looking at her with an almost humored, ironic glint in his beetle-eyes.

Eve swallowed the lump creeping up into her mouth and nose and eyes. "I-I can't . . . can't thank you enough. I don't know . . . what else to say."

The teen pulled a hand from his pocket and straightened his figure a bit. He pointed to the car window, indicating Oscar. "You need to tell him to play with nicer kids. Kids that won't leave him in the middle of nowhere."

Her curiosity got the better of her. "Where did you find him?"

"Me?" the kid asked, surprised. "No, no. I didn't find him. Friend of mine did, in a park, over by Long and Chamber Street. He was all alone, just passed out like. My buddy dragged him all the way here. Lucky he didn't just call 911 or the cops would be all over him, now . . . if he'd lived, that is."

Eve regarded the teen. He seemed, strangely, more admirable than her senses had led her to believe. She didn't really want all the details, but she had to thank him. "Are you Joe?" she asked, looking more at the ground than at the kid, her keys clasped so tightly in her hand that the metal was leaving imprints in her skin.

"Yeah."

"And your friend? Is he here? Can I . . . can I thank him?"

"Nah, he left. Had somewhere to be in a couple of hours. Goes to school with me, though. You want me to tell him thanks?"

"Yes," Eve replied, relieved. "Please. Just tell him . . . tell him thanks, from both of us."

"Will do. Just get him home, keep him quiet for a while. Can't take no other night like that, not anytime soon."

Joe nodded, half-smiled (almost benevolently), and turned to go back into the house. Eve watched him for a moment, ashamed at the aversion she'd felt toward him at first, and then walked briskly around the car to the driver's side, where she got in, slammed the door, and looked at Oscar: his eyes were open, and she could tell he knew what was going on, but he wasn't going to say a word to her, even if he could. Absolute humiliation was evident in his glazed features, and there was nothing Eve could do to assuage his shame. Nothing at all.

As she twisted the key in the ignition and started the engine, Eve allowed the lump that she'd previously swallowed to climb back into her throat, and all the way home, she let her tears fall, freely, clearly, glittering down her cheeks and into the emptiness below.