Will entered his house in anger. He had returned from another tedious day at Food Mart, full of pestering commands from Mike and the unsettling presence of his newest co-worker, Simon. The kid was odd, to say the least, and the best Will could do was avoid him, which he'd so far successfully managed. Even so, work was turning into a living nightmare. Having to be around all the people was the worst. Will had asked his manager to keep him in the stock room where he could just deal with shelves and products—things that didn't try to talk to him or look his way. There was some real pain in having to put up with people when Will knew that they were empty spaces in the course of his life. He felt something akin to self-betrayal when he spent moments of his scant time and wasted his breaths concerning himself with people who had absolutely no effect and would leave no impression on his life. It felt like a slow path to certain (and painful) death—wasting the few moments he had . . . and for what? For a paycheck? Why? Will didn't support himself; his parents supported him. They gave him a roof over his head and they fed him. In fact, his father still paid his cell phone bills and his mother did his laundry. Will did virtually nothing for himself, because they'd always done it for him. That's how it was, being the only child of wealthy parents who suspected him of mental disorders, and yet he resented them for their support. Why hadn't they forced him out, so he had made something of himself instead of working a lame job at a grocery store to get some pocket cash for his entertainment needs? It was like they pitied him, and he detested them for that. Their pity had held him back.

With such thoughts circulating in his mind, he couldn't help but enter the house in a foul mood. It was nighttime, and as he came in through the back door, he flung his keys into a basket by the coat-rack and missed; his keys clattered to the floor, which only made him more annoyed, so he didn't pick them up and instead strode purposefully down the hall toward the stairs.

The entire house seemed lit up; it was too bright. Will hated that. And he hated that he couldn't tell where his parents were, although if he'd been able to hear their voices, he would've hated the sound of them as well. Everything was hateful, at that moment. No matter what it was, it was hateful. At least, that was what he thought until he passed the library and something caught his eye. Two somethings, actually—one of them a dark-colored pewter and the other a deep red and gold. They were sculptures, the both of them, and they were on the sill of a window-seat in the far wall, across from the hallway where Will now stood. His father must have just purchased them, because Will knew they had not been there as recently as that morning. There was something familiar in them, he noticed as he walked into the room. They were small, about two feet high each, and they were definitely a pair; he could tell from the delicate way that the two pieces mimicked one another in form, as if one was asking a question and the other was responding. Their shapes were sharp and precise, with angles in strange directions and points that looked almost dangerous to touch. They were abstract and cold, and Will felt an immediate appreciation of them. He sensed that they reflected something inside of him—a disdainful doggedness not to fit into his surroundings. They were practically made with him in mind, he thought, and it dully infuriated him that his father had been the one to buy them. It hinted that they might have something in common, and Will refused to consider it.

It came to him suddenly that he had seen similar pieces—there had been an exhibit not so long ago at the Contemporary Art Institute. He'd gone to it one day when bored (the day he'd seen that woman for the second time). He'd really enjoyed that exhibit . . . perhaps these were created by the same artist . . . Will didn't know. His parents were into art and frequently bought random bits and pieces from local artists. It wasn't unlikely that they'd gone to the Contemporary and seen the same exhibit as he had, liked what they'd seen, and decided to contact an artist and commission a few pieces. No, it wasn't unlikely at all. Just like them to filch the few pleasures he found in life; they already controlled so much of him—why not his pastimes as well?

His anger intensified. This was ridiculous. He could do nothing here, in this place. His parents were infecting the pointless life he had. He had to get out.

Upstairs, he found his computer and began searching. Searching for a way out. A new job was probably out of the question; he was qualified to do nothing. The only job he'd ever had was at Food Mart, because he'd never needed one otherwise. He didn't have the money for school—didn't want to go there, anyway—but he also knew he didn't have the money to live on his own. His paycheck was decent, and he'd saved up a little of it, but he definitely couldn't afford to get his own place. If he really wanted to get out, he'd have to find roommates so his portion of rent would be lessened.

This posed a problem for Will, seeing as he didn't have many friends. Actually, he couldn't think of any people at all whom he'd consider anything above an acquaintance (and he used even that term lightly). Will had made it a point to avoid people, and because of that, he couldn't think of a single person he could contact about finding a roommate. This didn't worry him too much. He would dislike whomever he had to live with, because he didn't really like being around people in general, so it didn't matter whether he roomed with acquaintances or strangers. He'd have to get along with roommates casually, but he didn't have to like them personally, and whoever he lived with, they'd have to be more bearable than his parents and the ridiculous parties they constantly hosted. Once he realized this, he knew what to do. Online, he found a number of sites where people had posted want-ads for roommates and notifications of rooms for rent. He scanned through the names, looking for the cheapest prices he could find and then checking the neighborhood. Something close to his job would be useful. As much as he hated working at Food Mart, he'd definitely need to keep doing it if he expected to afford monthly rent. He could do it; yes, he could. And if, for some reason he couldn't . . . Will knew his parents would be right here, willing to take him back in. The thought both infuriated and relieved him.

It was two days later that Will found his new roommates. Two guys, living within walking distance of his job (he had at first wondered if he'd seen them come into the grocery store and hoped he hadn't, because he no doubt would immediately despise them by relating them to work). One was a college student, and the other was working, but between the two of them, they couldn't make the payments as easily as they'd wanted. So they'd decided to let the back room, which was sort of a little sun-porch off the back of the apartment. They weren't sure they were technically allowed to rent it out, seeing as it wasn't really part of the two bedrooms their landlord advertised, but they didn't seem to care, and neither did Will. When he visited the place to take a look at it, he knew he could bear it. The little room was entirely surrounded with windows, and it was absolutely secluded from the rest of the apartment because it had only one door, which opened onto the kitchen. From the kitchen branched two doors: one was closed and led out to the back stairwell, the other was open, and it went to the main hallway. First thing Will saw in the main hall was the bathroom, and beyond that was a living and dining room; the two bedrooms branched off of the living room toward the very front of the apartment. Will at once noted the benefits of the arrangement. From his room, he'd have quick access to everything he'd need, including the kitchen, the bathroom, and the back door. Except when eating or using the toilet or taking a shower, he'd never have reason to see his roommates. He'd use the back door as if it was the front, and he'd keep himself as separated from them as possible. It was all he needed, for a meager $250 a month. The opportunity was too good to pass up.

There was no contract to sign. The guys didn't care if he signed anything. They just told him to move in, and he figured they must be pretty hard up for rent. Will had never seen either one of them before, although one had a strange sense of familiarity about him. The first, the college student, was named Mark McBride. He was apparently attending Corland University, doing something with environmental sculpture . . . Will didn't really care, so he couldn't recall. He felt upon meeting Mark that he was one of those self-satisfied guys whose only goals in life were to yell loudly at sporting events and make it with easy women. Will instantly wrote him off as an ass and decided that mere cordiality was the only approach to dealing with such a person.

Fortunately for Will, Mark wasn't the one that took care of the business of showing him around the apartment and getting him keys and discussing the actual moving process. It was the other guy who helped him with all of that: Derek Newsham. Derek seemed very laid back—almost too laid back. He talked as if he were missing some brain cells, but Will didn't care. The dumber these guys were, the better. Then he wouldn't have to talk with them too much. The only weird thing about Derek was that he seemed strangely familiar. He was altogether average in appearance, with his mousy brown hair and typical height and form, and yet there was something odd about him that Will couldn't help but feel he had seen before. It was uncanny; he felt strangely drawn to him, as if this Derek held something he wanted—just as one child is drawn to another that possesses a toy he desires. It was something about his movements. Yes. There was no particular feature that struck Will; it was more the way he moved. How he lifted the pen for Will to write down his contact information, and how he reached up to unlock the deadbolt at the top of the door. Will felt accustomed to his mannerisms. This realization flustered him at first. He didn't want to feel any sort of connection at all to these men, but then he wondered if maybe he was just being over-dramatic. Perhaps in his apprehension about finding and affording a place away from his parents, he was imagining omens.

In spite of feeling a little indecisive about Derek, Will informally agreed to rent the room and, within hours of meeting with the two, had returned home to pack his few belongings.

Will hardly had anything to bring with him. What he owned the most of were clothes, but he easily fit only the necessary items into a suitcase. He packed in the early evening, after his parents had gone out to some dinner party, so that they wouldn't see what he was up to and question him. He hadn't told them a thing about his decision to go. Part of him knew that his parents would be glad to be rid of him, but he also was certain that they'd try to convince him to stay. It was the guilt they were afraid of feeling that had caused them to keep him around. Even though they didn't particularly like him being there, they had passively forced him to stay because they didn't want to suffer remorse if he crashed and burned out on his own. If Will told them what he was up to—that he was leaving—he wouldn't have been able to take the false looks in their eyes, the ones that were saturated with pity and hid desires to get him out of their lives. He wouldn't have been capable of enduring their artificial concern when all they really cared about were themselves. This was why he packed alone, at night, with no one around.

He didn't need much, so he was finished in less than an hour. Will didn't mind forgoing some of the nice things he was used to having. Besides his clothes and hygiene items, he included in his suitcase his laptop, a drawing pad, and some oils and charcoals. That was about all he needed to occupy himself.

Lugging the suitcase down the stairs, he felt a sudden sensational urge to yell. To just scream at the top of his lungs, let out a primal bellow of freedom. But he refrained from doing so, because it might cause one of the neighbors to come knocking. As he was rolling his belongings down the hall, Will stopped suddenly when he reached the library. Still there, on the windowsill opposite him, were the two sculptures his father had recently purchased. There was something in them that caused the kernel of animosity in his gut to turn, even though he was quite unsure why. He was drawn to the pieces; he thought they were fascinating—it wasn't the actual artwork that caused his ire. Will guessed it had something to do more with his father and the fact that when Will had found something interesting, his father had ruined that interest by sharing it. Everything, when shared, was ruined.

An idea formed in Will's mind. He deserved those sculptures, not his father. He'd liked them first, even though he'd never seen these particular two pieces before they'd been in the library. There was something in Will that firmly believed he'd known them before anyone else had, and so they were inherently and originally his. He had to take them.

So he did. Stealing the pieces entailed finding another suitcase and carefully packaging them so they wouldn't be damaged. The things were heavier than they looked—Will had thought they'd be light because of how delicate the spaces between their pieces were . . . but they weren't. They were like iron bookends, and they were going to be a pain to lug along with his other suitcase. But he didn't care. He had to take them, now, because the determination was set solid in his mind. He deserved them. They were his to begin with. It would sever him from his parents for good.

Because he had decided to take the sculptures, Will had to call an Uber. The wait for its arrival was filled with anxiety over whether his parents would come home, but soon, his ride pulled into the semi-circle drive, and Will was on his way to his new apartment, the thrill of finally doing something worth his while intoxicating his brain.