"Haven't seen him in days." S.T. sounded like he didn't give a fuck. Emotional gymnastics were only as good as the little numbers held up by the judges. No one to win over, no reason not to play it cool. "I can ask his roommate."

He chugged the last of his bottle of beer, and crunched the bottle with the careless expertise that came from maximizing space in an office recycling center. He took a second to equalize pressures, otherwise known as belching, and stuffed the crumpled bottle in his back pocket. "Guess we're it."