Past hacky sacks, onto baseballs, and further. Every unsuccessful set of three and the weight increases; just as Barclay said it would. Ten sets: all failures. Waylon drops a palm onto the next ball; he lets his fingers fall around it. A curtain too tired and with too many gaps to truly close out the show. His temple pounds, injecting acid into his skull.

The ember pushing him forward dies. Ephemeral and — in the end — meaningless.

Static buzzes. As a dog slobbers — Pavlovian in response, he tries to lift the ball. He clamps his fingers around it and heaves. The thing is heavier than it looks: a small, pleather sack that weighs as much as a cantaloupe. Muscles lining the underside of his forearm groan the higher he raises it. He gives up and his hand falls back to the platter, drug down by the ball's weight and his exhaustion. What was the point of trying, again? I can't remember.

The woman's voice intrudes on his thoughts. Because I asked 'why not?' Not my best pep talk, but it did work. For a bit.

Static thrums inside Waylon's elbow. His fingers move, tightening around the ball by their own will. He's too tired to resist. Not for long enough. He thinks.

Barclay snaps and dormant, white embers ignite within his eyes. Voices from the crowd slow, morphing into a demonic roar until they cut off completely. Slowed to nothing. Blinking lights that line the booth's signs are no different. They alternate slower and slower, until every other bulb stays dark.

Waylon blinks. The static: it's gone. He lets his hand fall. It flounders off pleather and it swings by arm. Eventually, whipping to a stop at his side.

Barclay folds himself over the counter, wagging his hind end like an impatient cat fixing to pounce. "You're looking rough. Tell you what: if you feel nice and cooperative now, we can work something out."

"Okay."

"Tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Playing coy? Fine: why are you here? Be thorough, too. I've got a couple friends who'd love to know."

Waylon tenses. "I can't—"

"No. No excuses."

"But—"

Barclay raises his hand, middle finger and thumb pressed together. Threatening another snap. "Either talk with me or we'll put the game back in charge. It's a lot less eager to listen than I am."

Exhaustion traces a web from Waylon's fingertips, up tendons and muscles, from forearm to shoulder. Pain follows. Nerves tingle and muscles jerk — tiny movements, but enough to make his arm visibly jitter. Is the break worth it to betray Albert? To betray the others? What would I lose if I did?

Danger chimes. A gentle, yet terrifying feeling that spreads from the base of his skull, coating him in cold sweat. What would Albert do to me? They're like a mob boss, right?

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Barclay's hand moves. He raises it a touch higher, tension building between his middle finger and thumb. "Okay, if that's what—"

"Wait, wait." The words slip out of Waylon's mouth. "We— we were hired to steal the penguin enclosure's refrigeration unit. Something about it being a collectors item." He says. They would figure that out anyway: I just need a little more time.

"Better, but I said thorough. Who are you counting as 'we'? It couldn't have been just you and Ronan. Who poured the salt?" Barclay says.

Among the throes of Waylon's indecision, memories force their way to the front of his mind. Flashes of Bond, Leia, and the gingerbread man from Shrek. I can just lie! Exactly like they did.

He spits on the floor, imagining that his saliva is tainted red with his tortured-self's blood. Exactly like Bond. "I'm the only other one. It was just supposed to be me in here. That intern found me pouring it, so I chased her down, then lost her. You cut me off on my way back to wrap the job up."

"Strange. Did you dye your hair since then? Find a stylist that had an opening a couple minutes before we got here?" Barclay swipes his hand over his head in play frustration. "Gosh, I could have sworn the dispatcher said the one chasing her had a blonde pompadour."

Shit.

His mind skipped over what happened in those movies after the lies: a solid ninety-five percent of the time, they dug the hole deeper. He tightens his fingers around the next ball.

A drop of blood seeps out from the sandwich of pleather and palm. His hand some drooling dog, afraid to let go while still wanting the ball torn free and thrown out of reach.

I can't chase it anymore; why am I fooling myself? What am I waiting for?

Honestly, why did you do any of this? Her voice is in his head, clearer than life. Gina. So clear he swears he can see her. There, beside Barclay. Dwarfing his considerable frame with her own: two heads taller; muscles stacked atop muscles; and hair pulled back. Two thick, gray braids snake over her shoulder.

Barclay doesn't notice her. He crosses his arms and leans on a nearby metal beam that supports the booth's roof. "Struck silent? How does it feel to get caught in a lie? Uncomfortable?"

Yawning, Gina leans on Barclay's sparkling head in turn. "Well? Come on, tell me. You've got a good reason to ignore my whole 'let me watch my soaps and die' bit, right?"

Gina... I don't know. I wanted to help you — to help Phil. Would you two hate me for this?

"Fucks knows! This is your head, so I only know as much as you. Probably not. Anyway, you dodged the question. Answer it." She pats Barclay's chest. "Not his. Mine."

Wagging a hand in front of Gina's face, Barclay snaps a dozen times; the crowd jitters. Starting and stopping and starting again. "Hello? What are you looking at?" He says, raising his voice above the crowd's tickering roar. One more snap and they go quiet.

Waylon stares past tears, past the man's protests, and into the green eyes that Consumption stole away. You're the only family I have left.

"Did you already forget how to find a new one? It wasn't too long ago that you were on your own." Gina says.

Her words wash over him, eroding long settled layers of dirt piled atop memories. Flashes of his mother and her drinking. Of the disgust that alcohol helped bring to words — not disgust at him, but at other's like him. And his father always beside her. Never active, never bothered.

Guilt, betrayal, loss. The unfairness of it all. The loneliness. Until Philip. Him and his family, there to bury the past with better, kinder memories.

Waylon slaps his palms onto the counter, head lowered and shoulders trembling. "I can't! I can't do it again."

Snap.

He whips his head up. Crowd and lights jolt back to life: cheering, jeering, and blinking in equal measure. Barclay pushes off the metal beam with a shove of his shoulder. Behind him, Gina's figure fades. She flashes Waylon a smile and then she's gone.

He blinks. Tears rolling down his face, he watches the spot she vanished. Where are you going? Stay. Come back. Please.

Barclay drives his face toward Waylon's, stopping inches away. Breath humid, sour. Embers whip up from deep inside Barclay's soul to flit about his pupils. Embers of a flame stoked by anger and disgust. "That's fine. You can ignore me. Just know, all the suffering you endure from here on is your fault."