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Trigger Warning: If you're easily triggered or if you can't handle disturbing situations, you might want to skip the second section of this chapter. Please see the story description for an updated list of warnings.

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June 26, 2012 at 2 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston

"And I'll see you in a few, beautiful," I whisper as I run my hand gently along the hood of my shiny black car, setting the alarm as I jog through the parking lot to the front of the store. Unlike the slammed Kroeger store down the road, I hadn't expected Fresh & Easy to be busy. Boy was I wrong. Guess that's what you get for trying to leave your house on a Friday afternoon. I had to drive around the store twice to even find a place to park, and when I finally found a spot it was all the way out in the freakin' boondocks right next to a cart return. I swear I'm gonna pitch a fit if someone hits my brand new, freshly waxed, dentless car with their stupid shopping cart and I won't even be sorry about it. I'm crazy enough about my baby when it isn't a hundred twelve degrees outside and when the world isn't already falling to pieces all around me.

When I finally make it up to the sidewalk, I'm almost out of breath and I lean against the cool, green tile wall right inside the door while I search for the payphone. The air conditioning is blowing my hair back from my sweaty forehead and whipping it all around so my reflection looks like Medusa in the silver claw machine. There's an old lady in a white knitted sweater using the phone so it looks like I'm gonna be here for a while. I already know what I'm gonna say to Kenny so I'm not worried about him, but I don't have a single clue what I'm gonna tell Rob or how I'm gonna say it. And standing here and waiting and thinking about it isn't helping. If it wasn't so important for me to tell him what's going on, I'd probably just call Kenny and go back home and forget all about it. I can't possibly screw this up any more but I should pull right back outta the whole thing before I somehow find a way to make it worse. If I'm gonna be completely truthful here, telling Rob what I did is the scariest part of this disaster of a day. A broken computer I can deal with, and I'm so used to Jerome being mad at me or being a jerk I don't even really notice it anymore. He reminds me of Daka. But the idea of Rob getting so ticked off at me he wouldn't want us to be friends anymore... That's the worst thing anyone could do to me.

The granny at the payphone is still chattering away, with her bright purple glasses perched on her wrinkly old nose and a chain of matching purple beads looping back around her neck to keep her glasses from getting lost. I watch her for a second but it doesn't look like she's gonna move any time soon. I don't know if I like the idea of delaying the inevitable. I take my phone out of my pocket and check to see if it's still frozen, and it is. The screen's turned on full blast with my e-mail app open and it won't let me lock it or turn it off. I decide it'd be better to just take the battery out while I wait, both to preserve the remains of my phone and to keep my mind busy for a few extra seconds.

It hurts to think about not being friends with Rob anymore. It's like we've been friends forever and like we're meant to always be friends. There's just something about him that never fails to make me feel better and makes me smile even if I've had a really crappy day like today. But will he even wanna talk to me after what happened earlier? I mean, Kenny's great and everything and I wouldn't give up my friendship with him either, but it's like... Rob just gets me more than Kenny does. We can sit in a Skype call without talking for twenty minutes and it's like we're still having a conversation. We don't even have to talk to talk, you know?

And it's not just that. It's like I don't have the same limits with Rob that I have with Kenny and my other friends. If we're at a convention or something together and we're bored and feeling dumb, he'll jump on my back and make me carry him around while he spanks me with a foam Minecraft sword, or I'll steal his pop and chug half of it down while he watches and he doesn't even care, or we'll throw down and have a wrestling match in the hotel room because we can't decide who gets the bed by the window, or he'll lose track of time signing stuff at a fan meet-up and I'll walk over and rub my face against his cheek so he can't pretend to ignore me anymore. All my other friends'd get really creeped out and stare at me like I'm an alien or call me a name or something. Even my brothers wouldn't put up with me doing any of that stuff. Is this always what it feels like to have a best friend, or is it a little bit more than that?

Okay, I said it. Are you happy now? Are you freakin' happy now?! I don't wanna think anything like that, ever. But if I said I hadn't already thought it might be something like that, I'd be lying. Yeah, I've thought about it once or twice but that doesn't mean I like thinking about it. I don't even know when I started thinking stuff like that, but the first time I actually noticed it was a couple days after Rob came out back in October, and I realized that dating him would be almost just like dating a girl, only better because he's a YouTube gamer like me and he understands what that means and what I have to do and what it feels like to be busy all the time. So it's only been... like eight months since I started thinking I might have a little, teeny, tiny, microscopic crush on my gay best friend. But they just call that bromance, right? He's still a guy, and it just looks like something else because I don't know what that feels like. That has to be it.

But if I stop trying to run from the bull and get a good look at the horns I'm running from, is it really just a bro-crush? Do guys with a bro-crush get that excited when they see their best friend's calling them on Skype? Do they not wanna let go of them when they're trying to get on a plane to go home after a convention? Do they hold out their hand to help them up off their bed just so they can feel how weirdly cold their hands are? Do they find an excuse to sit next to them at a restaurant or on their bed in the hotel room, even if it's just something stupid like showing them a picture their mom posted on Facebook? Do guys with bro-crushes do that? Maybe, maybe not. But this's getting weird just like everything else that goes on in my brain, and I don't like it. At all.

I don't wanna admit this in the first place, but I especially don't wanna admit it now when Rob probably won't even wanna talk to me when I call him. As soon as he realizes it's me, he'll probably just hang up and not answer his phone again. I screwed up so bad I wouldn't even blame him, even though it'd hurt like heck if I never talked to him again. It hasn't even happened yet and I already miss him like crazy. I wish I made as much money as Mitch so I could just get on a plane and fly up to Canada and tell him in person instead of trying to explain everything on a grody, gum-covered, germ-infested payphone at a crowded grocery store all the way down in Texas. I wanna see his face and watch his reaction and make him hug me one last time before he tells Jerome to come in and bash my head in with his axe.

Then again, maybe it's a good thing I'm thousands of miles away because if I was there with him, I'd probably start crying like a little baby and make myself into even more of a walking joke. I've got no control over myself around him and it's just stupid. I'm still embarrassed as all heck about how I acted at the hotel in March, and here I am making an even bigger freak show outta myself. I feel so miserable and so angry and so scared I'm getting worked up just standing here and I have to clear my throat to make that annoying lump go away. I'm a frickin' mess and it sucks so hard.

"Pull it together, Preston. This's just freakin' sad now." I must've said that out loud because the lady walking past me to go into the store put her hand on her kid's back and pushed him to walk faster. Now I'm creeping everyone else out, too. I thought it was just me. I look over and the little old grandma's nowhere to be seen. Great, so I've been standing here moping and talking to myself for no frickin' reason. That's the number one way to look like a total nutcase. Good job, Preston – you're finally good at something.

I feed a quarter to the machine and dial Kenny's cell number, but of course he doesn't answer. He's probably still sleeping and I'm not gonna keep calling him to wake him up. I leave him a really long, really ramble-y voicemail and hang up, hoping he won't get too mad at me for bailing on him even though I have a good excuse. Now it's Rob's turn... I hold the dime in front of the slot but I don't wanna put it in. I don't wanna tell him and have everything come crashing down around me, even though it will whether or not I make this call. It'd be better coming from me than from someone else, and the least I can do is warn him about the hacker. I take a big breath of air and let the coin slide in the machine, my fingers slowly typing in the number I'd circled on the phone bill. It rings a couple times and I hope I can just leave him a voicemail and go back home and hide under the blanket again, but I hear a click on the other end of the call. Did he hang up on me?

"Hello?" Just hearing his voice again makes my breathing slow down a little and makes me forget how loud and annoying everyone else in this store is. My face heats up and I duck into the little black cubicle-thing around the payphone so no one can see me turn bright red. I don't know if it's from me liking the sound of his voice because it's handsome and he makes me feel better when everything else sucks, or because I'm almost on the verge of tears again from all the stress. I'm so confused and happy and mad and conflicted I don't know what I feel anymore.

"Hey, Rob? Is that you?" Of course it's him, you idiot. You'd know his voice anywhere.

"Preston? Where are you? What happened?" Wait, he was worried about me? He sounds relieved and like he's glad I called him. But why? He doesn't hate me? Or does he not know yet? I have to tell him, I have to apologize.

"A lot. I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry before I say anything else, and you know how much I hate saying I'm sorry." It sounds so lame and so cheesy and so stupid, but I just start rambling so that freaking lump can't come back in my throat. It's a good thing I'm out in public or I'd be losing it right now. My eyes itch and I cover my face with my hand so no one can see how hard I'm fighting it.

"Tell me what happened."

"No, tell us what happened." Oh, frick. That's the Bacca. But what's the Bacca doing all the way up in Canada? What's going on here? Did I screw up so bad the Bac had to take a plane and go up to Rob's place? Or is Rob in New Jersey? What the frick have I done?

"Jerome?" Crap, my voice just cracked. There's no lying about that now and the Bac's gonna be making puberty and crybaby jokes all the time, if things ever go back to how they were before. If he fixes everything and they're willing to talk to me again, he can kick me out of every game we ever play ever and I won't even complain. He can do anything he wants. Just please, don't hate me.

"In the fur and flesh. You're in some pretty serious trouble, mister man. You better be at a Walmart 'cause you're gonna be using your PAX money to pick up all kinds of shit. We'll have a nice, long chat as soon as you get your ass away from that damn Elmo ride." I involuntarily look over at the little blond girl riding in the Elmo car by the door and I swallow the lump in my throat one last time, grabbing the pen chained to the payphone to write down his list.

"Anything you want, dude. What do you need?"

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June 26, 2012 at 3 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston

Could these lines seriously be any longer? And could that guy staring at me be any creepier? I turn around so I don't hafta look at him anymore but I can still feel his freaky, narrow eyes on my back and it's giving me goosepimples. I don't know if he's checking out my new laptop or if he's checking me out, but it's not appreciated either way. I shoulda done my laundry on time and worn some jeans or something even though it's the middle of summer and like a million degrees outside. You know your life sucks when you can't even go out in public in basketball shorts because some fudging jerkwad won't stop staring at your lower half or the computer in your hand or something. This must be how girls feel when they see guys checkin' them out. I won't ever do it again, I swear. This freakin' blows, dude. My clothes aren't even tight, and I'm not even that fat! What's up with this guy? Why's he staring at me like that?

I freaking hate Walmart – it's like a weirdo magnet.

Hopefully the Bacca won't need anything else so I won't have to come back and get oogled at again. Dad's already gonna be so mad at me for getting a credit card and charging so much stuff on it. He told me not to depend on credit cards like every five minutes when I was growing up and he's gonna have a meltdown when he sees I did it, anyway. There's just no way for me to make everyone happy at the same time today. I'll get it paid off eventually as long as I get all this stuff and use it to straighten everything out. Now that my reputation's really on the line, I can't afford to use my trip money for PAX and risk not being able to go. I need to be there for so many reasons. But more than that, I'd charge this credit card all the way up to the max if it meant I'd still have a chance to be friends with Rob. I wanna save my channels, yeah, but those are replaceable; Rob isn't.

The line moves ahead a couple inches and I move along with it, glancing behind me in the next line to see if Creepy McCreeperson is still staring at me. He is. Of course he is! And he isn't just staring at me as a whole person, and he definitely isn't staring at my new laptop. Nope. He's staring right at my butt just like a real steel, true blue, brand name creep. Did I really expect him to be doing anything else? I'd tell him off for being such a freaking weirdo but he doesn't look like someone you'd wanna mess with. He looks like the kinda guy who started out in a biker gang when he was younger but then got too crazy and too creepy for them and they kicked him out and made him live in a wet cardboard box in a back alley just so they wouldn't have to see him again. I bet he smells like an overdue electric bill someone fermented in a cesspool of dog crap for six months. Even his beard is yellow and he looks like he's got his stank on. Maybe if I keep making fun of him in my head I can ignore him better.

No, I've gotta get back to the important stuff. I did what the Bacca told me to and got a new computer with a butt ton of memory and a disposable cell phone LeetFire couldn't trace, that way we could stay in contact and work everything out. If I ever make it to the front of this disgusting line, I'm gonna go home and grab my basic recording equipment and some clothes and my toothbrush and stuff and go hang out at a cheap hotel for a couple days and use their Wi-Fi. One of the Bac's radioactive ninja hacker friends set me up a new e-mail account to use for everything, and I hafta make a Skype with a fake name they can use to find me but no one else would ever guess was me. Watching my back all the time is gonna be the hardest part. It's only been a couple hours since all this ish went down and I already miss life being simple. But at least I'll get to see Rob again.

A new cashier just came back from lunch and I hurry over to get in her line before too many people get the same idea. And guess who decides to follow right behind me? Mr. Creepy McCreeperson. He's holding a big stack of blank DVDs and a twenty-something-pack of Budweiser and I try not to look at him looking at me. Now that he's closer, I can definitely say he smells like something old and crispy and yellow. I'd take off and go hide in the clothing section for a while and pay for my stuff somewhere else, but I can't just take off with a computer like that or security'll tackle me and drag me in their dreary little interrogation room. I don't wanna be like Daka and have a bunch of stories about me trolling Walmart security. I like to think I'm better than that. Mom's still mad about him pretending to steal stuff in front of the cameras so she'd do his school shopping for him, and that was like eight years ago. I don't think I've ever seen her turn that red.

Preston, stop it. Pay attention for like five seconds until you get your stuff paid for and get the frick outta here. I don't want Creepy McCreeperson following me out to my car because something tells me that isn't gonna end well. On the other hand, I don't wanna take forever because I need to get online with the guys and find out what's been freakin' happening with the hacker before it gets any worse and I get permanently murked. Maybe if I take the long way out of the store through the food section and cut through the clothes he won't be able to follow me fast enough with his crooked old hippie legs. If I don't touch anything and I don't act too weird, security shouldn't get too suspicious. And even if they do, can't they see this creepy Willie Nelson wannabe stalking me through their store? Is he drunk or something? Does he think I'm someone else?

I finally pay for my computer and phone supplies and a bag of beef jerky and I book it outta there through the metal detectors as fast as I can without looking like I should be in a straightjacket. I take an unplanned detour through the baby section so he won't be able to watch me while he checks out, and I swerve over to the aisle with the milk and yogurt and weave in and out of people like I'm playing football all the way up to the registers by customer service. If he can't see me, he can't follow me. I duck between the racks of women's jeans and pretend to check my dead phone while I peek out at the front of the store before I make my next move. He was at the back of the store paying for his stuff like five minutes ago and I haven't seen him anywhere else yet, so maybe he left?

It seems too easy but I don't know what else to do. I can't come up with huge, elaborate plans on the spot like Rob and the Bacca can, and if I stand here too much longer security is gonna get freaked out and come after me. I decide to go out the door closest to my car so I can just make a run for it as soon as I leave the store. I get a tighter hold on the handle on my laptop and wrap the sack of supplies around my wrist so I can dig out my keys and be ready to dash. I take one last look around and go for it, praying he won't see me somehow.

I make it through the door and I think I got away hitch-free until I see him smoking a cigarette at the spot right between the two sets of doors, watching. He's been waitin' out here for me to get done shopping, just like a real psychopath would.

I don't care what I look like anymore: I sprint across the street and get honked at by some lady with fake blond hair and sunglasses and I unlock my car from all the way across the parking lot, like thirty cars away from the door. Why did all this hafta go down on a Friday afternoon when there's no freaking parking? I wish I had a Batmobile that could just drive up and get me. I'm about halfway there when a hand closes firmly around my arm and someone spins me around to face them. I either underestimated how fast he could run, or I overestimated how fast I can. This's bad.

"Hey, kiddo. You dropped this." He holds out a hundred dollar bill and his tiny, squinty gray eyes are still watching me as creepy as ever. It'd seem like he was just a nice guy doing the right thing, but I never carry cash on me because it burns a hole in my pocket and I waste it. Whatever scheme he's trying to pull, it isn't gonna work on me.

"Thanks, but that isn't mine."

"It sure looks like it's yours. Here, take it." He holds it closer to my face like he thinks it's gonna tempt me and make me drop my guard and let him grab my other arm. I just wanna get outta here and lock myself in my apartment and forget today ever happened at all. Seriously, this is turning out to be the worst day of my life by a very, very long shot.

"No, it really isn't. I think you have the wrong person."

"You don't look like the wrong person, sweetheart. I'd remember you anywhere." Okay, no. The No Level is over nine thousand right now. This guy's scaring the crap out of me even more than the Bacca does, and Rob isn't here to help me deal with him.

Wait, what? What would he do even if he was here? I can benchpress Rob and he hurts himself getting outta bed in the morning. If anything, he looks even less threatening than I do and that's really saying something. I'm in so many different kinds of trouble right now, both online and in real life. "What're you doin' out here all alone like this? A cute little girly like you has to have a boyfriend, right? Why didn't he come with you?" What the frick do I even say to that? Seriously? No, like seriously dude. What the crap?

"First thing's first: I'm a guy. Second, that isn't my money. Can you please let me go now?" I try to shake him off but he holds onto me even tighter. He's a lot stronger than he looks and his nasty, crooked hand is hurting my arm now. I wish he'd grabbed my other arm so I could whack him with my car keys and cut his face up or something. I don't think me telling him I'm not a girl is gonna do a whole lotta good when he's already crazy enough to try to do something like this.

"Sure you are, sweetheart, sure you are. Why don't you let me help you get in your car?"

"Naw, I think I'm good. Thanks for offering." My voice is getting higher and higher as I try not to panic and I know it isn't helping my case. This guy's looking at me like he's some kind of predator and I'm his next meal. Yep, that sounds like a fun time – going to Walmart to buy a computer and getting raped, murdered, and eaten in the parking lot by some kind of sex-crazed cannibal hippie guy. This's so ridiculous it's almost hilarious. I hope I live long enough to laugh about this someday.

"No, I insist." His hand darts around behind me and grabs a handful of my t-shirt like he's trying to grope a feel and I might've laughed if it was someone like Kenny or Rob or even Jerome doing it. But this ish ain't funny. Even though I know it's a really bad idea, I get a good grip on the handle of my laptop box and rear it back and smack him right in the face with it. He grunts and his hands loosen on me enough that I can break free and run a couple feet further before he comes after me again. I know I won't make it to my car before he catches up, so I spin around and put my keys in between my fingers like claws and get ready to deck him one, holding my car key like a knife. I don't look intimidating or even really manly, but I just finished a whole year of weight training and I'm a lot stronger than I look, too. If he gets close enough, I'll jam my car key in his eyeball or his throat and be done with him, or I'll use it to stab him in the gut and kick him when he bends over, Mortal Kombat style. And Dad said I'd never get anything from playing video games! From now on, if I can't find a spot in the first five cars, I'm not going shopping. This BS is gonna give me nightmares 'til I'm sixty.

"Back off, jerkwad. Keep your hands off me." I try to keep myself from stammering and shaking but my voice just keeps getting higher. Yeah, I sound real intimidating right now.

"You aren't gonna get away with doin' that. Come here, you little lezbo bitch. I'll show you what a real man feels like." This guy has to be drunk or psychotic or on drugs or something because no sane person looks like this. His eyes are still squinty and empty and he looks like he's about ready to start foaming at the mouth like a zombie. I guess the store security guards can't see this far out in the parking lot because no one's coming to help. It's like a Black Friday brawl on steroids. He pretends to lunge forward a couple times and tries to grab my arm again and I swipe at him with my Wolverine key hand, slowly backing up towards my car. I was waiting for him to throw his big box of beer at me but I don't see it anywhere. He must've just left without paying for it so he could come find me. What a freak. "Come here. I'll be real nice."

"Get away from me, you freakin' psycho! Go crawl in your cardboard box and die!" His face doesn't change and he just keeps coming at me, his greasy gray ponytail fluttering behind him in the scorching wind. He has to be on bath salts or something because he looks like some kinda monster that flies right over the cuckoo's nest every day at three. I don't know how much further away my car is and I'm too scared to look behind me and check. I back into the side of a cart return and grab the cart sticking out of the end and shove it at him as hard as I can to buy myself a little more time. When I hear him grunt, I turn around and sprint to my car and jump in and slam the door shut and peel out towards him so he has to duck out of the way. I bump my front fender on the cart I pushed at him but I don't even give a frick right now. At least I don't think he got my license plate number so he can't freaking hunt me down somehow. I guess it's a really good thing I'm gonna be spending a whole bunch of time in a hotel room somewhere.

I'm so worked up over Creepy McCreeperson I shiver all the way home like I'm freezing to death and I can't stop. I don't even think about checking to see if my laptop's okay until I get back in my apartment and lock both locks on the door and set the alarm system. With my luck, his big, ugly, yellow-gray hippie head probably broke the screen when I hit him with it. I double check the door's locked behind me and grab my hunting knife outta the junk drawer in the kitchen before I open up the computer. I catch myself looking up at the door a couple times while I peel the tape off the stupid little tabs, but I know no one's there. I unpack everything outta the box real quick, praying for the twentieth time today something will go my way. Surprisingly, everything looks fine. For once I'm glad they put so much styrofoam in these boxes.

"Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you." I stuff everything back in the box and slip the tabs back in to keep it shut, then I run through my apartment like a maniac and pack everything for the trip so I don't waste any more time. Jerome's gonna be mad enough as it is. Finally, I slide my new computer and the sack of supplies on top of all the other crap in my rolling suitcase, and I reset the alarm and make triple sure I lock the door before running down the stairs to the covered parking. Less than twenty minutes after getting home, I'm back in my car with the radio on and a chunk of teriyaki beef jerky in my hand, jamming out to some lame top forties hits as I turn onto the highway and try to forget about Mr. McCreeperson. I keep catching myself checking behind me in the rearview mirror to see if he's following me, but I don't think I have anything to worry about. Even if he finds me somehow, I have a five-inch knife in my pocket and at least one witness who'll see me kill him on Skype so they can testify at the trial. I'm golden now and I've never been more glad to be alive.

"Just forget about it, Preston. It's all over and he's probably sitting in his cardboard box and drinking beer. Just chillax, bud." I wish I was more persuasive.

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June 26, 2012 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"What in the seven living hells took you so long? I didn't mean you had to go find a hotel room in Florida!" Preston has a hard time with Jerome's teasing and temper as it is, and today has been bad enough without the Bacca biting his head off, too. He barely looks like himself and he keeps glancing up over the top of his computer with a nervous expression on his face. He looks terrified, like he's been traumatized by something. What happened that shook him up so much? Is he being stalked like Mitch is?

"Sorry, the lines were really freakin' long. I got everything set up as fast as I could but I had some trouble with my computer."

"Are you serious? You broke a brand new computer already?" Jerome looks almost impressed, his tired eyes opening the widest they've been since Paul logged off. He looks as spacey and drowsy as I feel.

"Well, yeah, a little. I kinda had to use it to hit someone in the head. But it was still in the box! I think I just messed up the graphics card a little bit because it has some black dots that keep moving all over the screen when I have Skype open." Jerome and I just sit there in silence, staring at Preston's flushed, panicked face on the screen. "But everything else's fine!"

"P, what the fuck were you doing at Walmart that made you hit someone over the head with a laptop?" Preston gets a disturbed look on his face and stretches his arms behind his head, a sure sign of discomfort. I know him well enough to know that something is seriously bothering him.

"It isn't important. I'll tell you later."

"You can't tell-"

"That's fine. We should get everything set up first, anyway." Jerome glares at me and huffs before he turns back to his second monitor and starts typing away on another e-mail. "What are we doing first?"

"Well, first of all, go get Mitch off his lazy ass and get him online in the other room so the call doesn't echo. An hour and a half of sleep is a helluva lot more than I got. Then we're gonna make new Skype accounts and connect them with Lava P's new one. Your username's what again?"

"I'm SteaklessFan97 and my name's Elijah."

"O-kay then. You're gonna hafta explain that when we re-call each other because you can't just go around saying you're 'steakless' and not expect people to ask questions." Preston grins and salutes us before he leaves the call, and Jerome just looks at me with a devious smile on his face. "Whaddit I tell ya, Woof. He's been bitten by the bug. Did you see his face when he answered your call? It's like he saw a fucking fairy – no pun intended. And tell me that username isn't somehow a tribute to you. Robbie's got himself a fanboy."

"You should watch yourself, man. I think you might be having hallucinations now." He rolls his eyes and looks at me shrewdly, his fingers laced together and curled up under his chin like a badly-drawn anime schoolgirl.

"Well excuse me for trying to be Captain Obvious here. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"We aren't here to discuss metaphysics, Jerome. Who am I looking for on my new account?"

"Just look for Noseferatu. Don't worry: you can't miss it." With a few overdramatic blinks, he ends the video call and I sit there for a moment, staring at my contact list. Even without him directly watching me, I know he still has Zeus and who knows how many other people monitoring me through my webcam and microphone at all times. He might even be watching me in another program right now, laughing at the expression on my face. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and slowly get to my feet to go shake Mitch awake. He's curled up on top of my bed with his hood pulled up to hide his face and block out the light. I feel horrible for having to wake him back up after the last few days he's had, but I agree with Jerome: having him in the call is absolutely necessary. We need to hear the whole story.

"Hey, Mitch. The Bacca wants you." He doesn't budge or acknowledge me at all, a gentle snore issuing from his mouth. "Hey, Mitch. Mitch. You have to get up," I say a little louder, walking into the bedroom and poking his leg with my toe from as far away as possible. He gets very violent if someone tries to wake him up, and after two days of being stalked and harassed, I'm sure his reflexes are sharper than ever. I withdraw my foot and take a deep breath, preparing to do my practiced Mom impression. "Mitchell Donald Trump Hughes, get your fetid fucking feet off of my bed!" My high-pitched shriek startles him awake and he tries to kick me as he sits straight up like a meerkat, his eyes wide and accusing as he stares blankly at me. His hood flops pathetically off of the back of his head and the movement makes him jump.

"Wha...? What do you want?"

"I don't want anything, except for you to put your shoes back on. The Bacca wants to talk to you."

"Not right now, dood. Tell him I'll talk to him later."

"He isn't going to take 'no' for an answer. Come on, up. I was going to make some coffee." He hides his face in his sleeves and nods slightly, and I walk next door to the kitchen to throw out the filmy remains of yesterday's coffee, watching with an odd satisfaction as the tasteless brown water gets washed down the drain. I start a fresh pot of real coffee and listen to Mitch shuffling around in my room, hoping against all odds that he might be changing his socks. At this rate, I'll still be able to smell his rancid feet long after the war is over and he has moved on. He slowly ambles into the tiny living room, his eyes squinting in the artificial light as he looks around for me. I didn't think it was possible, but he looks even more exhausted than Jerome does.

"What's for breakfast, Mom?" he mumbles as he peeks around the corner, searching the countertops for food. I scoff and pull out a couple of clean coffee mugs, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I take the milk pitcher out of the fridge and pour some in his mug. For someone who spends so much time sleeping at other people's houses, Mitch is very picky with his food and drinks. Because of this, my apartment has always been one of his personal hells.

"If you can find it, you can eat it. I have a few cups of ramen noodles, a can of corned beef hash, or a selection of TV dinners for you to choose from, Your Highness."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. It's been six months and you still have absolutely nothing?"

"Hey, you chose to stay with me. You knew what you were getting into."

"At least the last place had room service."

"This place could have room service, too, if Jerome wasn't loaning you his credit card. If he's living off of energy drinks and a family-size box of chips, I doubt he's going to let you order take-out three times a day." He gives me the classic Benja Bitchface and pushes past me to search through the cupboards for something less repulsive to snack on. Unlike Jerome, Mat, and me, he never has to eke out a living on frozen dinners and canned goods. "Oh, and I think there might be a can of expired tomato sauce back behind the hash. Canned goods last a while past the printed date, so if you want it, it should still be good."

"Do you ever shut up, Robert?"

"Will you ever grow up, Mitchell?" He snorts and starts shuffling through each cupboard, one by one, even stopping to check behind the paper plates and coffee mugs to see if I'd tried to stash something good where I thought he wouldn't find it. If I had ever had anything good, it would have been consumed long ago. "Are you having any luck?"

"You suck dood."

"Only in your wildest dreams, sweetness."

"Those are called nightmares, Rob."

"Aww, you do think about me!" He smirks and opens the freezer, pulling out each individual TV dinner to examine the misleading, clearly Photoshopped pictures of food on the boxes, analyzing the contents of the purported food like a connoisseur. He pauses with a lasagna dinner in his hand before he puts it back and leans down to check the fridge, a look of resignation on his face. I pour our coffee and put his mug on the counter next to him, deciding to leave him to his treasure hunt before Jerome loses his temper again. His fuse has gotten exponentially shorter the longer we've been sitting at our desks, waiting for Trinh to answer his e-mail. I honestly don't blame him, but I would prefer to not try to moderate a war between him and Preston. A screaming match of that magnitude deserves its own full-length movie.

I log out of my Skype account and relaunch the program before I begin creating a new profile, taking a long drink from my mug while I try to think of a clever username. Deciding to further rub my lack of food in Mitch's face while playing off of my real username, I register as xPancakessx with my fake e-mail address and set my avatar photo as someone's small, brown, fluffy dog. I start searching for Preston and see that his thumbnail is a blurry photo of one of his eyes, the iris black and endless from the poor lighting in his hotel room. I send a request for a video call and wait for him to answer, hoping he isn't facing the wrath of Jerome by himself; who knows what would happen then. He answers on the second ring with a cheesy smile, dropping his hand from his cheek and leaning back in his chair to get a better look at the screen. Maybe there is a little bit of truth to what Jerome said earlier.

"What's up... Derek? Why'd you pick 'Derek'?"

"Why did you pick 'Elijah'?"

"Mom told me that's what she was gonna name me until she found 'Preston' in some baby book. My bio dad wanted me to have a traditional name like Sam but she didn't like it and changed it just to make him mad." He rarely talks about his biological father and he's always very defensive when he does. I have never heard him talk about it so openly or directly before, especially with a smile on his face. He seems tense and out of character today and it's unnerving.

"You were the troll baby, then."

"Kinda, yeah. But Daka's always been more of a troll than me in every way, shape, and form. Mom said a couple times how much her first husband hated his name. They used to call him 'Big D' just so they wouldn't have to say his real name." I try to hold back my laughter, but I can't help it. I can actually imagine Preston's brother with his omnipresent smirk sitting in his Navy unit's dormitory, telling everyone about the grand adventures of Big D. "I know, right? I think it went to his head. What about yours?"

"Hmm?" He rolls his eyes and pretends to be offended, dramatically throwing his hand down on the table like I just ruined a nuclear kill streak for him on Black Ops.

"Your fake name. Senpai, plz wake up."

"Sorry, it's been a really long day. I just went with what I thought my name should have been. My real name is really random."

"Pfft, don't talk to me about random names. I get called 'Prestad' and 'Prentiss' and 'Presley' and all kinds of stupid crap. One of my aunts called me 'Persian' one time." He gives me his 'you are being a derp' eyes and both of our faces break into dumb grins. Even with the stress of the hacker situation and the awkwardness of this conversation, he still manages to make me smile. "You never answered my question though. Why 'Derek'?" I had been hoping he would let it drop because I hate talking about my family life, but he's even more persistent than Jerome. If I don't answer him now, he will turn it into a running joke that will never go away.

"It might not sound like a big deal to you, but it's still something that really pisses me off. My mom's name is 'Dale' and my dad's name is 'Darren,' and they named my older brother 'Darryl.' My name is Robert." He can tell this isn't something I want to joke about and he tries to hold a straight face, but he fails.

"Can't even have one job."

"Not even one."

"I didn't even know you had a brother. Huh. Was there a reason for them to give you a weird name or was it just a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

"I mean, it isn't completely out there, but it still doesn't fit. I'm the fifth Robert Latsky in my family; my dad wanted to name me after his dad."

"You know, not everything has to match for something to be perfect." We both fall silent for a few seconds while Preston's awkward compliment soaks in and I could have sworn his face just turned bright pink. "You're way too OCD about everything. Anyways, you look like a Rob to me. I can't see myself calling you anything else besides 'plebface.' " He's talking much faster than he was before and he's trying to pass it off as a bad joke, but I save it to memory to analyze later. I will have plenty of time to think when everyone else is either sleeping or sleepwalking; this is the best, and worst, part of having insomnia.

"I thought we agreed that you would call me 'senpai.' "

"Yeah, but I think I've done enough flob-a-dobbing around for one lifetime. I'm ready to get a job now."

"You had better watch yourself, kohai-kun. Today isn't the best day to try to leave the nest." He absent-mindedly rubs his nose, his facial expression and body language both displaying his nervousness in full view. Whatever happened to him earlier still has him spooked.

"I know, I know. I really screwed up and I don't even know where to start telling you how sorry I am."

"Don't worry about it, man. We'll get everything taken care of once Jerome and Mitch join in." I turn around and wheel away from my desk, looking down the hallway to see if Mitch is still in the kitchen searching for a meal. The light is off again and he's nowhere to be found. "Hey, Mitch! You had better not be asleep again!"

" 'M naw! 'M trin a eeh!"

"Okay!" Preston is bent over in laughter, his left hand covering his eyes and his quickly reddening face. Why does he have to be so fucking adorable all of the time?

"He should make his screen name 'Haymitch.' That's all you ever call him, anyway," he chuckles as he rests back in his chair, trying to calm himself back down. I catch him glancing over the top of his computer again and his smile fades a little. I need to remember to ask him about that after the other two go to sleep.

"No, he should make his name 'Oymitch' so I can scream it at him every time he goes back to the kitchen to raid my fridge. I won't have anything left in two hours." He looks confused for a second, his eyes squinting as he cocks his head to the side.

"Wait, so Mitch's actually at your place? Is Jerome there, too?"

"No, Jerome is in Jersey at his apartment, but Mitch is bunking with me for a while." His head tilts upright again, but it seems like the idea of Mitch staying with me is bothering him. Is it because he's concerned for Mitch's well-being or... does he look jealous? I have to be seeing things now. I shouldn't let Jerome get to me like this, not when my pills are still in full effect.

"Why's he doing that?"

"His computer was hacked and they gave out his personal information to everyone on Earth, including his address. There were people standing outside his apartment building, and someone slashed his tires when he went to a motel to escape. Jerome made him ditch his car and he is going to stay with me until everything blows over."

"That's why I had to get a room, isn't it? I screwed up that bad."

"Don't quote me on this, but the Bacca made it seem like they didn't get much of your information. You should ask him about that, not me." Preston opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by a video call request from someone named Syrupylonggut. "Hey, Mitch? Are you 'Syrupy'?" Preston breaks into another fit of laughter and beats the palm of his hand on the dark wood table in his room.

"Yes, dood. Who else would be 'Syrupy'?" he yells back to Preston's delight as I answer his call.

"Hey man, I just wanted to check. I thought you would be 'Salty.' My pancakes were getting nervous over here."

"Fuck you and your pancakes and waffles and all of the rest of your nonexistent food," he mutters as he takes another bite of his tasteless lasagna, his face wrinkled in bitterness. I hold back a sigh of disbelief when I see he is sitting on my bed, the nightstand pulled over to hold his laptop. If he stains my sheets with tomato sauce, I swear I will never help this pig again.

"Aww. Thanks for the offer, Donald, but we can't do things like that on camera." I wink at him and he rolls his eyes before he goes back to cutting up his crispy, overcooked pasta. Preston seems even less amused than him.

"Wait, I thought you said your middle name was 'Donnell.' "

"That's the joke, Purrston. You've got the eye of the tiger, mate."

"How did you find my account, Mitch? I haven't even added Jerome yet," I ask, draining as much of my coffee as I can before I forget about it, like always.

"Zeus connected me. He knows everything, doncha know?" I nod as I search for Jerome's fake account, stopping when I see that the third result in the list is a cropped picture of his nose from one of Mitch's photos from PAX South. True to his word, he was nigh unmissable. I send him a request for a video call and wait for him to pick up, half expecting him to have fallen asleep while he was waiting for us. On the contrary: he's typing furiously on his other screen, his face turned away from his webcam when he answers my call.

"Took ya long enough. I coulda driven to your front door in the time it took you three to get your shit together."

"You weren't the one who had to awaken and feed the Mitchell."

"Sut uh. 'M al'oss duh." He begins shovelling the dry pasta into his mouth even faster than before, throwing the paper container down and raising his hands up in the air in victory after he gets the last bite in his mouth. "Done. Are you happy now, Mr. Fatsky?"

"You are really one to talk, Fridge Boy. You have one strange fetish, my friend."

"At least I know how to use a fridge. Maybe if you would get a job, you could learn how to use one, too." Jerome snorts at our ridiculousness and pops open another Monster to prepare for storytime, and Preston has a strange half-smile on his face, like he isn't paying full attention.

'What's with him today? Is he okay? This is really worrying me now.'

"You know, that's funny. I don't remember the last time you paid for your own food, Benja. Maybe you should think about getting a job, too," I add while he chugs on a full glass of milk, his eyes crossed to look at the cup. He wipes a few drops of milk from his face while he sets the nearly empty glass down, his eyes locked on his webcam.

"Say that again and I'll come in there and Benj you."

"Alright alright alright!" Jerome interrupts, smacking his lips to break up our pretend fight. "Everyone good to go? Great! The council is now in session."