“Hi, Ms. Burgos,” Klein said.

"Mr. Klein" Rosa said, "how are you today?"

"I'm good." He looked over his shoulder at Miller, all mopey and dramatic.

"I am leaving for the day," she said, "and just wanted to give you guys my key, just in case you wanted to spend time with Santiago."

"Thanks. When will you be back?"

"Not till around nine-thirty. My cousin is in town, and she likes to talk until the cows come home."

"Okay. We'll check on him at some point."

Then she was gone, and Klein kept wheeling around the place like he had all these things to do, while Miller laid on his bed, coffee table pushed out so that Klein could barely fit between it and the entertainment center. Miller wondered how he never noticed the smell of the place anymore, because he was noticing it then. It smelled hot and stale, like things had been there too long.

Maybe I've been here too long, he thought.

Eventually, Klein settled down with his laptop, his keys clicking away. Miller put on his discman, but his headphones were broken. Only one side worked, and the other kept cutting out, He yanked the headphones out of the jack, and the plug broke off and got stuck. He reached down to the floor and fished his pocket knife out of his pants to pry the plug out, but when he did he cut himself and messed up the headphone jack port. He threw the discman across the room and reached for his beer, but it was empty.

"Do you want me to get you another one?" Klein asked.

"No. I want..." He didn't say it. He wanted to, but it wouldn't be right. It wasn't Klein he was mad at.

Klein stared and blinked. He looked like an owl with those big glasses on. "What?"

"Nothing." Miller closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. As if on queue, the sun moved over just a hair and peeked through the curtains, shooting a little beam in Miller's eye and keeping him awake.

"You want nothing, eh?" Klein said.

"I want to sleep."

Klein kept clicking away. Between him and the sun, Miller found falling back to sleep hopeless, so he sat up. His hairy belly was bulging out of his robe. "I want to be thinner."

"Well," Klein said, "I can't help you with that."

"I want another discman, and new headphones."

Klein was quiet for a while, but when Miller was quiet too, he broke down. "I'm not siccing a lawyer on my sister."

Miller nodded, feeling guilty. "How's work?"

"Pretty dry," Klein said. "I made a few calls, sent a few emails. Time to sit back and wait."

Miller nodded. It seemed to him the whole world had frozen still and was looking through the slit between his curtains, looking at his fat, hairy belly and cluttered apartment.

"Working on your book?" he asked.

"Different one."

He nodded again. He thought about how his place was before Klein moved in. He was never a tidy person, but he had a bedroom with a closet he could stuff things in when he wanted to have friends over.

Who am I kidding? he thought. I never had friends over here. The truth was, Miller hadn't had friends over since he was a kid. After Bridget left, all the company that came over was for the girls. Before that, well, he got married right out of high school, and there was no point inviting anyone over to see the way he and Bridget treated each other. They saw enough when we went out. She had the ability to shout quietly, picking words that hit just as hard as a scream. Worst part was she usually smiled when she said them. If there was one thing Miller could think back to he was grateful for, was that Bridget left before the girls were old enough to miss her.

"Wanna watch something?" Miller asked.

"Maybe later. Why don't you walk Santiago?"

Miller grumbled. "My knee's buggin'."

"That brace not working anymore?"

Miller hauled himself up and went to the kitchen. Klein looked over the top of his laptop when Miller came back into the living room. He was looking at the beer Miller had just opened.

"Don't look at me like that," Miller said.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"If you don't want to do something I suggest to you, just tell me that you're trying to avoid being this way. I'll drop anything if it spares you from this."

"Spares me from what? Having to mop your crap off the floor? Or having to sleep in my own living room? Or having to hide from the landlady in case she wanders in and sees that I tore up half the carpet? Because then I have to explain to her why. You want that, Klein? You want our pretty little landlady to know you can't..."

Klein could have cried, or slammed his laptop shut, or throne it across the room. Miller would have preferred any of those things to the quiet, piteous stare he got instead. Miller leaned on the kitchen counter and sighed. It was he who felt like crying.

"Klein, man, I'm sorry. Damn it." He went back into the kitchen and poured out his beer.

"I don't care if you drink beer, Miller,” Klein said. “Lots of guys drink beer." Then his eyes went down to the broken discman. But he could have looked anywhere in the room and found some broken thing laying in a pile of its own self.

"I don't know how you do it,” Miller said. “I don't know how you keep your armor on. How can you sit there while people call you names or, or treat you like you're helpless, or when I unload on you? How do you not feel more broken up about stuff? Can I get some of that armor, man?"

"It doesn't cover everything."

Miller had a memory. It was a gorgeous summer day and they were sitting outside. Miller was reading a Reader's Digest, and Klein was reading a National Geographic. There were some teenage punks in the neighborhood then. They mostly just walked around, being loud and rude, and every now and then they'd get bold and spray paint some mispelled word on a sign. That day they were running their mouths. First they called Klein a nerd, then a cripple. He ignored them. Then one called him a porch monkey. "Literally," another said. One of the girls said "Dude, he heard you.". Then the one who made the slur said "What's he gonna do? Chase us?". They must not have seen Miller, and he did chase them. That was the day he hurt his knee.

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Miller went to the hide-a-bed and folded it up. He didn't have the energy to fold his blankets. He sat on the couch and looked at Klein. He had another memory, when that kid got hit by a car. It was Wednesday and they were on their way to a restaurant. A ten or twelve year old girl was running after her dog when a beat up old Geo came speeding around the corner. The dog got out of the way, but the kid didn't. Klein was close enough to grab her, but not strong enough to pull her all the way off the street. Anyone would be shook up after that, but when they saw her in a wheelchair half a year later and she wouldn't even look at Klein, he stopped eating for almost a week. Yep. His armor had some holes alright.

"I could never handle Mr. Wilson like you do," Klein said.

"I wouldn't say I handle him. I'm just waiting for that overclocked little ticker of his to pop."

Klein laughed, followed by Miller. Then, out of the blue, Klein smiled.

"This is better than the last time," he said.

"Well, seeing Fowler was a lot more fun than seeing Bridget."

"Yeah. I like him."

Miller nodded. "He's a good guy. He wasn't fit for the kind of work we did. I could see him doing alright at sales, though."

"He likes to talk."

"Yeah. Yeah he does." Miller's voice started on a high note, but dipped down a little at the end.

"I know it hurts right now, but it was good for you to talk about your daughters with someone who knew them."

Maybe it was the beers he'd been drinking since nine, or maybe it was a little bit of everything. Or maybe it was just because he couldn't stop thinking about Sadie and Allison, and how happy they looked piling into the Johnson's van, and how he couldn't wait to call the talent scouts the next morning. And he couldn't stop thinking about the sick feeling he had when he was leaning forward to turn off his TV and saw the police cruiser pulling into his driveway. Mr. Wilson, Bridget, Klein's late night diarrhea, his knee, his wrist, his bank account, the rude little brat at De Nada's, those punk teens, he couldn't stand it. Or maybe he could have if he hadn't figured out that Jimmy Fowler lied about moving on and marrying Batty Betty. It sure did hurt to see his friend had stopped to lying in order to save face.

"What tipped you off?" Fowler asked in the parking lot after meeting Klein.

"Happy husbands with wives who can cook don't look like you," Miller said. "And Batty Betty? C'mon, Fowler. That poor girl is just too cooky. Even for you."

"Yeah. I'm sorry I lied to you, Joey. I just, I just wanted you to think I was doing good, you know."

"It's okay, man," Miller said. "I just want us on a level field if we're gonna stay in touch. I'm hoping we will, by the way."

"Yeah, sure. I need that, man. I need a friend."

"We all need friends, bud."

"We sure do. I'm glad you got Klein. He's a smart dude."

"He sure is. And he knows it. Hey, Jimmy. You are doing good. Unless you're lying about the job, too."

"Nah, nah, the job's real. Hey, I got an early flight, so... It was great seeing you, Miller."

"Great seeing you too, Fowler."

It seemed all of life had come together in Miller's tiny living room, and he leaned forward, thinking he could hold it in if he covered his face with his hands, but that seemed to make it ten times worse.

"Oh god!" Miller said as he cried.

Klein patted him on the back with his nubby hand.

They walked Santiago that evening. He almost got away a couple times as Miller's wrist was worse, despite the wrap.

"I think you need a proper brace for that too," Klein said.

"I think I need one of them fancy chairs."

Klein laughed and smiled again. "You can have mine."

Miller looked at the chair. He'd done everything he could for Klein, but he just didn't have the money to buy him a newer one. Klein leaned forward and reach over with his longer arm to scratch his back. Miller figured a newer chair, with better padding, might not chafe at Klein's rash so much.

They made their way to the stream where Miller took Santiago when he was tired. They were farther along than the bench, and there wasn't a soul in sight.

"Can you hand me a stick?" Klein asked.

Miller let go of the leash and got Klein a long stick that had a sharp curve at the end. It looked like a good back scratcher, but Klein whistled and threw it.

"No!" Miller shouted.

A little boy, no older than six, had appeared on the other end of the path. He was kicking a bright rubber ball and laughing his little head off, and Santiago forgot all about the stick and was barreling towards the rubber ball.

Klein's chair was faster than Miller could run, even with the brace. he was shouting and Klein was whistling. Santiago came back with the ball in his mouth and the little boy was bawling. That's when his parents came into view.

"We're very sorry," Miller said. The parents were understanding, and the worst thing that happened was the ball was sopping wet. Somehow Santiago didn't pop it with is teeth.

"Let's go back," Miller said, winded.

His knee could barely bend by the time they got home. It had swollen to the point where he had to be careful when taking off the brace.

"I'll take it," Klein said. He put it the hallway closet, fighting to keep the mop from falling on him.

Miller winced and grunted as he hopped to the kitchen. Klein helped him with the ice pack when he'd sat down, then wove his way through the clutter to the entertainment center.

"How about a comedy?"

"Sure," Miller said. He couldn't have told someone what movie they were watching if they asked. It took all his concentration not to pass out from the pain in his knee. Klein managed to reach the ibuprofen, leaning half out of his chair and opening the cupboard with his mouth. There were only two pills left. Klein got Miller a beer to wash it down with.

"You're not an alcoholic," Klein said.

"I know."

"You're also not the guy I met on that bench."

Miller smiled, then twisted off the cap. "I'm feelin' like something a little more low key."

Klein went back to the entertainment center and took out Beverly Hills Cop out of the VCR, then rummaged through their VHS collection. They settled on a WWII documentary they both liked.

"Thanks, bud," Miller said.

An hour later, they were watching a scene of young soldiers lined up alongside a row of tanks.

"They're kids," Miller said. "Look at those boys. They're kids."

"Want me to change it?"

"No. No. Its the war, man. It's disturbing. No way around that."

"It's fascinating, though."

Miller nodded. "Sure is. What makes people do all this? Is killing really that important? It's like the whole planet wanted to start over or something. Ahh!"

All he did was shift on the couch and his knee was on fire. He lifted the ice pack and grimaced. The skin around his knee was purple.

"You need to see a doctor."

"I know. I would if I could, man. But those copays are a joke."

They finished the documentary and started getting ready for bed. Klein was in the bathroom so long Miller thought he might have fallen asleep.

"Want me to bring you your laptop?" Miller asked. He laughed at his joke until he realized Klein had brought his laptop in. It was faint to hear through the door, but he was clicking away.

"Is that where you get your inspiration?"

Then he heard Klein flush, and Miller went in to help him wash and get back in his chair.

"I wanted to make sure you didn't have to get up later," Klein explained.

"You didn't have to do that."

"You need to rest your knee, and you still have to fold out your bed."

Miller didn't say anything. He just helped Klein to bed and said good night. He decided not to mess with the hide-a-bed and just laid down on the couch and opened his book. It was about the history of the Olympics, dating back to the role of athletics in ancient Greek society.

Even Plato looked tough, he thought as he flipped through a page of illustrations.

"Miller!"

He started to sit up, but Klein didn't sound upset or in pain.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Let's meet the lawyer."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll call Fox in the morning."

He called Fox right after breakfast, and was smiling when he hung up the phone. Fox gave him the address of her firm. He showed it to Klein, and Klein raised an eyebrow.

"She'll remember you now," Miller said.