Now, though, he kept moving toward Jude, who had at least been released by Marta and her grouchy friend and was talking to their friend Carolina (seeing this, he felt guilty anew, as he hadn't talked to Carolina in months and he knew she was angry with him), when Francesca blocked his path to reintroduce him to a woman named Rachel with whom he had worked four years ago on a production of Cloud 9, for which she had been the assistant dramaturg. He was happy enough to see her again-he had liked her all those years ago; he had always thought she was pretty-but he knew, even as he was talking to her, that it would go no further than a conversation. After all, he hadn't been exaggerating: he started filming in five weeks. Now was not the time to get ensnared in something new and complicated, and he didn't really have the energy for a one-night hookup which, he knew, had a funny way of becoming as exhausting as something longer-term.

Ten minutes or so into his conversation with Rachel, his phone buzzed, and he apologized and checked the message from Jude: Leaving. Don't want to interrupt your conversation with the future Mrs. Ragnarsson. See you at home.

"Shit," he said, and then to Rachel, "Sorry." Suddenly, the spell of the party ended, and he was desperate to leave. Their participation in these parties were a kind of theater that the four of them agreed to stage for themselves, but once one of the actors left the stage, there seemed little point in continuing. He said goodbye to Rachel, whose expression changed from perplexed to hostile once she realized he was truly leaving and she wasn't being invited to leave with him, and then to a group of other people-Marta, Francesca, JB, Malcolm, Edie, Carolina-at least half of whom seemed deeply annoyed with him. It took him another thirty minutes to extricate himself from the apartment, and on his way downstairs, he texted Jude back, hopefully, You still here? Leaving now, and then, when he didn't get a reply, Taking train. Picking something up at the apt-see you soon.

He took the L to Eighth Avenue and then walked the few blocks south to his apartment. Late October was his favorite time in the city, and he was always sad to miss it. He lived on the corner of Perry and West Fourth, in a third-floor unit whose windows were just level with the tops of the gingko trees; before he'd moved in, he'd had a vision that he would lie in bed late on the weekends and watch the tornado the yellow leaves made as they were shaken loose from their branches by the wind. But he never had.

He had no special feelings for the apartment, other than it was his and he had bought it, the first and biggest thing he had ever bought after paying off the last of his student loans. When he had begun looking, a year and a half ago, he had known only that he wanted to live downtown and that he needed a building with an elevator, so that Jude would be able to visit him.

"Isn't that a little codependent?" his girlfriend at the time, Philippa, had asked him, teasing but also not teasing.

"Is it?" he had asked, understanding what she meant but pretending not to.

"Willem," Philippa had said, laughing to conceal her irritation. "It is."

He had shrugged, unoffended. "I can't live somewhere he can't come visit," he said.

She sighed. "I know."

He knew that Philippa had nothing against Jude; she liked him, and Jude liked her as well, and had even one day gently told Willem that he thought he should spend more time with Philippa when he was in town. When he and Philippa had begun dating-she was a costume designer, mostly for theater-she had been amused, charmed even, by his friendships. She had seen them, he knew, as proof of his loyalty, and dependability, and consistency. But as they continued dating, as they got older, something changed, and the amount of time he spent with JB and Malcolm and, especially, Jude became evidence instead of his fundamental immaturity, his unwillingness to leave behind the comfort of one life-the life with them-for the uncertainties of another, with her. She never asked him to abandon them completely-indeed, one of the things he had loved about her was how close she was to her own group of friends, and that the two of them could spend a night with their own people, in their own restaurants, having their own conversations, and then meet at its end, two distinct evenings ending as a single shared one-but she wanted, finally, a kind of surrender from him, a dedication to her and their relationship that superseded the others.

Which he couldn't bring himself to do. But he felt he had given more to her than she recognized. In their last two years together, he hadn't gone to Harold and Julia's for Thanksgiving nor to the Irvines' at Christmas, so he could instead go to her parents' in Vermont; he had forgone his annual vacation with Jude; he had accompanied her to her friends' parties and weddings and dinners and shows, and had stayed with her when he was in town, watching as she sketched designs for a production of The Tempest, sharpening her expensive colored pencils while she slept and he, his mind still stuck in a different time zone, wandered through the apartment, starting and stopping books, opening and closing magazines, idly straightening the containers of pasta and cereal in the pantry. He had done all of this happily and without resentment. But it still hadn't been enough, and they had broken up, quietly and, he thought, well, the previous year, after almost four years together.

Mr. Irvine, hearing that they had broken up, shook his head (this had been at Flora's baby shower). "You boys are really turning into a bunch of Peter Pans," he said. "Willem, what are you? Thirty-six? I'm not sure what's going on with you lot. You're making money. You've achieved something. Don't you think you guys should stop clinging to one another and get serious about adulthood?"

But how was one to be an adult? Was couplehood truly the only appropriate option? (But then, a sole option was no option at all.) "Thousands of years of evolutionary and social development and this is our only choice?" he'd asked Harold when they were up in Truro this past summer, and Harold had laughed. "Look, Willem," he said, "I think you're doing just fine. I know I give you a hard time about settling down, and I agree with Malcolm's dad that couplehood is wonderful, but all you really have to do is just be a good person, which you already are, and enjoy your life. You're young. You have years and years to figure out what you want to do and how you want to live."

"And what if this is how I want to live?"

"Well, then, that's fine," said Harold. He smiled at Willem. "You boys are living every man's dream, you know. Probably even John Irvine's."

Lately, he had been wondering if codependence was such a bad thing. He took pleasure in his friendships, and it didn't hurt anyone, so who cared if it was codependent or not? And anyway, how was a friendship any more codependent than a relationship? Why was it admirable when you were twenty-seven but creepy when you were thirty-seven? Why wasn't friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn't it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but only by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified. Friendship was witnessing another's slow drip of miseries, and long bouts of boredom, and occasional triumphs. It was feeling honored by the privilege of getting to be present for another person's most dismal moments, and knowing that you could be dismal around him in return.

More troubling to him than his possible immaturity, though, were his capabilities as a friend. He had always taken pride in the fact that he was a good friend; friendship had always been important to him. But was he actually any good at it? There was the unresolved JB problem, for example; a good friend would have figured something out. And a good friend would certainly have figured out a better way to deal with Jude, instead of telling himself, chantlike, that there simply was no better way to deal with Jude, and if there was, if someone (Andy? Harold? Anyone?) could figure out a plan, then he'd be happy to follow it. But even as he told himself this, he knew that he was just making excuses for himself.

Andy knew it, too. Five years ago, Andy had called him in Sofia and yelled at him. It was his first shoot; it had been very late at night, and from the moment he answered the phone and heard Andy say, "For someone who claims to be such a great friend, you sure as fuck haven't been around to prove it," he had been defensive, because he knew Andy was right.

"Wait a minute," he said, sitting upright, fury and fear clearing away any residual sleepiness.

"He's sitting at home fucking cutting himself to shreds, he's essentially all scar tissue now, he looks like a fucking skeleton, and where are you, Willem?" asked Andy. "And don't say 'I'm on a shoot.' Why aren't you checking in on him?"

"I call him every single day," he began, yelling himself.

"You knew this was going to be hard for him," Andy continued, talking over him. "You knew the adoption was going to make him feel more vulnerable. So why didn't you put any safeguards in place, Willem? Why aren't your other so-called friends doing anything?"

"Because he doesn't want them to know that he cuts himself, that's why! And I didn't know it was going to be this hard for him, Andy," he said. "He never tells me anything! How was I supposed to know?"

"Because! You're supposed to! Fucking use your brain, Willem!"

"Don't you fucking shout at me," he shouted. "You're just mad, Andy, because he's your patient and you can't fucking figure out a way to make him better and so you're blaming me."

He regretted it the moment he said it, and in that instant they were both silent, panting into their phones. "Andy," he began.

"Nope," said Andy. "You're right, Willem. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No," he said, "I'm sorry." He was abruptly miserable, thinking of Jude in the ugly Lispenard Street bathroom. Before he had left, he had looked everywhere for Jude's razors-beneath the toilet tank lid; in the back of the medicine cabinet; even under the drawers in the cupboard, taking each out and examining them from all angles-but couldn't find them. But Andy was right-it was his responsibility. He should have done a better job. And he hadn't, so really, he had failed.

"No," said Andy. "I'm really sorry, Willem; it's totally inexcusable. And you're right-I don't know what to do." He sounded tired. "It's just that he's had-he's had such a shitty life, Willem. And he trusts you."

"I know," he mumbled. "I know he does."

So they'd worked out a plan, and when he got back home, he'd monitored Jude more closely than he had before, a process that had proved singularly unrevealing. Indeed, in the month or so after the adoption, Jude was different than he'd seen him before. He couldn't exactly define how: except on rare occasions, he wasn't ever able to determine the days Jude was unhappy and the days he wasn't. It wasn't as if he normally moped around and was unemotive and then, suddenly, wasn't-his fundamental behavior and rhythms and gestures were the same as before. But something had changed, and for a brief period, he had the strange sensation that the Jude he knew had been replaced by another Jude, and that this other Jude, this changeling, was someone of whom he could ask anything, who might have funny stories about pets and friends and scrapes from childhood, who wore long sleeves only because he was cold and not because he was trying to hide something. He was determined to take Jude at his word as often and as much as he could: after all, he wasn't his doctor. He was his friend. His job was to treat him as he wanted to be treated, not as a subject to be spied on.

And so, after a certain point, his vigilance diminished, and eventually, that other Jude departed, back to the land of fairies and enchantments, and the Jude he knew reclaimed his space. But then, every once in a while, there would be troubling reminders that what he knew of Jude was only what Jude allowed him to know: he called Jude daily when he was away shooting, usually at a prearranged time, and one day last year he had called and they'd had a normal conversation, Jude sounding no different than he always did, and the two of them laughing at one of Willem's stories, when he heard in the background the clear and unmistakable intercom announcement of the sort one only hears at hospitals: "Paging Dr. Nesarian, Dr. Nesarian to OR Three."

"Jude?" he'd asked.

"Don't worry, Willem," he'd said. "I'm fine. I just have a slight infection; I think Andy's gone a little crazy."

"What kind of infection? Jesus, Jude!"

"A blood infection, but it's nothing. Honestly, Willem, if it was serious, I would've told you."

"No, you fucking wouldn't have, Jude. A blood infection is serious."

He was silent. "I would've, Willem."

"Does Harold know?"

"No," he said, sharply. "And you're not to tell him."

Exchanges like this left him stunned and bothered, and he spent the rest of the evening trying to remember the previous week's conversations, picking through them for clues that something might have been amiss and he might have simply, stupidly overlooked it. In more generous, wondering moments, he imagined Jude as a magician whose sole trick was concealment, but every year, he got better and better at it, so that now he had only to bring one wing of the silken cape he wore before his eyes and he would become instantly invisible, even to those who knew him best. But at other times, he bitterly resented this trick, the year-after-year exhaustion of keeping Jude's secrets and yet never being given anything in return but the meanest smidges of information, of not being allowed the opportunity to even try to help him, to publicly worry about him. This isn't fair, he would think in those moments. This isn't friendship. It's something, but it's not friendship. He felt he had been hustled into a game of complicity, one he never intended to play. Everything Jude communicated to them indicated that he didn't want to be helped. And yet he couldn't accept that. The question was how you ignored someone's request to be left alone-even if it meant jeopardizing the friendship. It was a wretched little koan: How can you help someone who won't be helped while realizing that if you don't try to help, then you're not being a friend at all? Talk to me, he sometimes wanted to shout at Jude. Tell me things. Tell me what I need to do to make you talk to me.

Once, at a party, he had overheard Jude tell someone that he told him, Willem, everything, and he had been both flattered and perplexed, because really: he knew nothing. It was sometimes incredible to him how much he cared about someone who refused to tell him any of the things friends shared with each other-how he had lived before they met, what he feared, what he craved, who he was attracted to, the mortifications and sadnesses of daily life. In the absence of talking to Jude himself, he often wished he could talk to Harold about Jude, and figure out how much he knew, and whether, if they-and Andy-braided together all their knowledge, they might be able to find some sort of solution. But this was dreaming: Jude would never forgive him, and instead of the connection he did have with him, he would have none at all.

Back in his apartment, he shuffled quickly through his mail-he rarely got anything of any interest: everything business-related went to his agent or lawyer; anything personal went to Jude's-found the copy of the script he'd forgotten there the week before when he stopped by the apartment after the gym, and left again; he didn't even take off his coat.

Since he'd bought the apartment a year ago, he'd spent a total of six weeks there. There was a futon in the bedroom, and the coffee table from Lispenard Street in the living room, and the scuffed Eames fiberglass chair that JB had found in the street, and his boxes of books. But that was it. In theory, Malcolm was meant to be renovating the space, converting the airless little study near the kitchen into a dining alcove and addressing a list of other issues as well, but Malcolm, as if sensing Willem's lack of interest, had made the apartment his last priority. He complained about this sometimes, but he knew it wasn't Malcolm's fault: after all, he hadn't answered Malcolm's e-mails about finishes or tiles or the dimensions of the built-in bookcase or banquette that Malcolm needed him to approve before he ordered the millwork. It was only recently that he'd had his lawyer's office send Malcolm the final paperwork he needed to begin construction, and the following week, they were finally going to sit down and he was going to make some decisions, and when he returned home in mid-January, the apartment would be, Malcolm promised him, if not totally transformed, then at least greatly improved.

In the meantime, he still more or less lived with Jude, into whose apartment on Greene Street he'd moved directly after he and Philippa had broken up. He used his unfinished apartment, and the promise he'd made to Andy, as the reasons for his apparently interminable occupancy of Jude's extra bedroom, but the fact was that he needed Jude's company and the constancy of his presence. When he was away in England, in Ireland, in California, in France, in Tangiers, in Algeria, in India, in the Philippines, in Canada, he needed to have an image of what was waiting for him back home in New York, and that image never included Perry Street. Home for him was Greene Street, and when he was far away and lonely, he thought of Greene Street, and his room there, and how on weekends, after Jude finished working, they would stay up late, talking, and he would feel time slow and expand, letting him believe the night might stretch out forever.

And now he was finally going home. He ran down the stairs and out the front door and onto Perry Street. The evening had turned cold, and he walked quickly, almost trotting, enjoying as he always did the pleasure of walking by himself, of feeling alone in a city of so many. It was one of the things he missed the most. On film sets, you were never alone. An assistant director walked you to your trailer and back to the set, even if the trailer and the set were fifty yards away. When he was getting used to sets, he was first startled, then amused, and then, finally, annoyed by the culture of actor infantilization that moviemaking seemed to encourage. He sometimes felt that he had been strapped, upright, to a dolly and was being wheeled from place to place: he was walked to the makeup department and then to the costume department. Then he was walked to the set, and then he was walked back to his trailer, and then, an hour or two later, he would be collected from the trailer and escorted to the set once again.

"Don't let me ever get used to this," he'd instruct Jude, begging him, almost. It was the concluding line to all his stories: about the lunches at which everyone segregated themselves by rank and caste-actors and the director at one table, cameramen at another, electricians at a third, the grips at a fourth, the costume department at a fifth-and you made small talk about your workouts, and restaurants you wanted to try, and diets you were on, and trainers, and cigarettes (how much you wanted one), and facials (how much you needed one); about the crew, who both hated the actors and yet were embarrassingly susceptible to even the slightest attention from them; about the cattiness of the hair and makeup team, who knew an almost bewildering amount of information about all the actors' lives, having learned to keep perfectly quiet and make themselves perfectly invisible as they adjusted hairpieces and dabbed on foundation and listened to actresses screaming at their boyfriends and actors whisperingly arranging late-night hookups on their phones, all while sitting in their chairs. It was on these sets that he realized he was more guarded than he'd always imagined himself, and also how easy, how tempting, it was to begin to believe that the life of the set-where everything was fetched for you, and where the sun could literally be made to shine on you-was actual life.

Once he had been standing on his mark as the cinematographer made a last adjustment, before coming over and cupping his head gently-"His hair!" barked the first assistant director, warningly-and tilting it an inch to the left, and then to the right, and then to the left again, as if he was positioning a vase on a mantel.

"Don't move, Willem," he'd cautioned, and he'd promised he wouldn't, barely breathing, but really he had wanted to break into giggles. He suddenly thought of his parents-whom, disconcertingly, he thought of more and more as he grew older-and of Hemming, and for half a second, he saw them standing just off the set to his left, just far enough out of range so he couldn't see their faces, whose expressions he wouldn't have been able to imagine anyway.

He liked telling Jude all of these things, making his days on set something funny and bright. This was not what he thought acting would be, but what had he known about what acting would be? He was always prepared, he was always on time, he was polite to everyone, he did what the cinematographer told him to do and argued with the director only when absolutely necessary. But even all these films later-twelve in the past five years, eight of them in the past two-and through all of their absurdities, he finds most surreal the minute before the camera begins rolling. He stands at his first mark; he stands at his second mark; the cameraman announces he's ready.

"Vanities!" shouts the first assistant director, and the vanities-hair, makeup, costume-hurry over to descend upon him as if he is carrion, plucking at his hair and straightening his shirt and tickling his eyelids with their soft brushes. It takes only thirty seconds or so, but in those thirty seconds, his lashes lowered so stray powder doesn't float into his eyes, other people's hands moving possessively over his body and head as if they're no longer his own, he has the strange sensation that he is gone, that he is suspended, and that his very life is an imagining. In those seconds, a whirl of images whips through his mind, too quickly and jumblingly to effectively identify each as it occurs to him: there is the scene he's about to shoot, of course, and the scene he'd shot earlier, but also all the things that occupy him, always, the things he sees and hears and remembers before he falls asleep at night-Hemming and JB and Malcolm and Harold and Julia. Jude.

Are you happy? he once asked Jude (they must have been drunk).

I don't think happiness is for me, Jude had said at last, as if Willem had been offering him a dish he didn't want to eat. But it's for you, Willem.

As Vanities tug and yank at him, it occurs to him that he should have asked Jude what he meant by that: why it was for him and not for Jude. But by the time he's finished shooting the scene, he won't remember the question, or the conversation that inspired it.

"Roll sound!" yells the first A.D., and Vanities scatter.

"Speed," the sound person answers, which means he's rolling.

"Roll camera," calls the cameraman, and then there's the announcement of the scene, and the clap.

And then he opens his eyes.

2.

ONE SATURDAY MORNING shortly after he turns thirty-six, he opens his eyes and experiences that strange, lovely sensation he sometimes has, the one in which he realizes that his life is cloudless. He imagines Harold and Julia in Cambridge, the two of them moving dozily through the kitchen, pouring coffee into their stained and chipped mugs and shaking the dew off of the plastic newspaper bags, and, in the air, Willem flying toward him from Cape Town. He pictures Malcolm pressed against Sophie in bed in Brooklyn, and then, because he feels hopeful, JB safe and snoring in his bed on the Lower East Side. Here, on Greene Street, the radiator releases its sibilant sigh. The sheets smell like soap and sky. Above him is the tubular steel chandelier Malcolm installed a month ago. Beneath him is a gleaming black wood floor. The apartment-still impossible in its vastness and possibilities and potential-is silent, and his.

He points his toes toward the bottom of the bed and then flexes them toward his shins: nothing. He shifts his back against the mattress: nothing. He draws his knees toward his chest: nothing. Nothing hurts, nothing even threatens to hurt: his body is his again, something that will perform for him whatever he can imagine, without complaint or sabotage. He closes his eyes, not because he's tired but because it is a perfect moment, and he knows how to enjoy them.

These moments never last for long-sometimes, all he has to do is sit up, and he will be reminded, as if slapped across the face, that his body owns him, not the other way around-but in recent years, as things have gotten worse, he has worked very hard to give up the idea that he will ever improve, and has instead tried to concentrate on and be grateful for the minutes of reprieve, whenever and wherever his body chooses to bestow them. Finally he sits, slowly, and then stands, just as slowly. And still, he feels wonderful. A good day, he decides, and walks to the bathroom, past the wheelchair that sulks, a sullen ogre, in a corner of his bedroom.

He gets ready and then sits down with some papers from the office to wait. Generally, he spends most of Saturday at work-that at least hasn't changed from the days he used to take his walks: oh, his walks! Was that once him, someone who could trip, goatlike, to the Upper East Side and home again, all eleven miles on his own?-but today he's meeting Malcolm and taking him to his suitmaker's, because Malcolm is going to get married and needs to buy a suit.

They're not completely certain if Malcolm is actually getting married or not. They think he is. Over the past three years, he and Sophie have broken up and gotten back together, and broken up, and gotten back together. But in the past year, Malcolm has had conversations with Willem about weddings, and does Willem think they're an indulgence or not; and with JB about jewelry, and when women say they don't like diamonds, do they really mean it, or are they just testing the way it sounds; and with him about prenuptial agreements.

He had answered Malcolm's questions as best as he could, and then had given him the name of a classmate from law school, a matrimonial attorney. "Oh," Malcolm had said, moving backward, as if he had offered him the name of a professional assassin. "I'm not sure I need this yet, Jude."

"All right," he said, and withdrew the card, which Malcolm seemed unwilling to even touch. "Well, if and when you do, just ask."

And then, a month ago, Malcolm had asked if he could help him pick out a suit. "I don't even really have one, isn't that nuts?" he asked. "Don't you think I should have one? Don't you think I should start looking, I don't know, more grown-up or something? Don't you think it'd be good for business?"

"I think you look great, Mal," he said. "And I don't think you need any help on the business front. But if you want one, sure, I'm happy to help you."

"Thanks," said Malcolm. "I mean, I just think it's something I should have. You know, just in case something comes up." He paused. "I can't believe you have a suitmaker, by the way."

He smiled. "He's not my suitmaker," he said. "He's just someone who makes suits, and some of them happen to be mine."

"God," said Malcolm, "Harold really created a monster."

He laughed, obligingly. But he often feels as if a suit is the only thing that makes him look normal. For the months he was in a wheelchair, those suits were a way of reassuring his clients that he was competent and, simultaneously, of reassuring himself that he belonged with the others, that he could at least dress the way they did. He doesn't consider himself vain, but rather scrupulous: when he was a child, the boys from the home would occasionally play baseball games with the boys from the local school, who would taunt them, pinching their noses as they walked onto the field. "Take a bath!" they would shout. "You smell! You smell!" But they did bathe: they had mandatory showers every morning, pumping the greasy pink soap into their palms and onto washcloths and sloughing off their skin while one of the counselors walked back and forth before the row of showerheads, cracking one of the thin towels at the boys who were misbehaving, or shouting at the ones who weren't cleaning themselves with enough vigor. Even now, he has a horror of repulsing, by being unkempt, or dirty, or unsightly. "You'll always be ugly, but that doesn't mean you can't be neat," Father Gabriel used to tell him, and although Father Gabriel was wrong about many things, he knows he was right about this.

Malcolm arrives and hugs him hello and then begins, as he always does, surveying the space, telescoping his long neck and rotating in a slow circle around the room, his gaze like a lighthouse's beam, making little assessing noises as he does.

He answers Malcolm's question before he can ask it: "Next month, Mal."

"You said that three months ago."

"I know. But now I really mean it. Now I have the money. Or I will, at the end of this month."

"But we discussed this."

"I know. And Malcolm-it's so unbelievably generous of you. But I'm not going to not pay you."

He has lived in the apartment for more than four years now, and for four years, he's been unable to renovate it because he hasn't had the money, and he hasn't had the money because he was paying off the apartment. In the meantime, Malcolm has drawn up plans, and walled off the bedrooms, and helped him choose a sofa, which sits, a gray spacecraft, in the center of the living room, and fixed some minor problems, including the floors. "That's crazy," he had told Malcolm at the time. "You're going to have to redo it entirely once the renovation's done." But Malcolm had said he'd do it anyway; the floor dye was a new product he wanted to try, and until he was ready to begin work, Greene Street would be his laboratory, where he could do a little experimentation, if he didn't mind (and he didn't, of course). But otherwise the apartment is still very much as it was when he moved in: a long rectangle on the sixth floor of a building in southern SoHo, with windows at either end, one set facing west and the other facing east, as well as the entire southern wall, which looks over a parking lot. His room and bathroom are at the eastern-facing end, which looks onto the top of a stubby building on Mercer Street; Willem's rooms-or what he continues to think of as Willem's rooms-are at the western-facing end, which looks over Greene Street. There is a kitchen in the middle of the apartment, and a third bathroom. And in between the two suites of rooms are acres of space, the black floors shiny as piano keys.

It is still an unfamiliar feeling to have so much space, and a stranger one to be able to afford it. But you can, he has to remind himself sometimes, just as he does when he stands in the grocery store, wondering whether he should buy a tub of the black olives he likes, which are so salty they make his mouth pucker and his eyes water. When he first moved to the city, they were an indulgence, and he'd buy them just once a month, one glistening spoonful at a time. Every night he'd eat only one, sucking the meat slowly off the stone as he sat reading briefs. You can buy them, he tells himself. You have the money. But he still finds it difficult to remember.

The reason behind Greene Street, and the container of olives that are usually in the refrigerator, is his job at Rosen Pritchard and Klein, one of the city's most powerful and prestigious firms, where he is a litigator and, for a little more than a year now, a partner. Five years ago, he and Citizen and Rhodes had been working on a case concerning securities fraud at a large commercial bank called Thackery Smith, and shortly after the case had settled, he had been contacted by a man named Lucien Voigt, whom he knew was the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein, and who had represented Thackery Smith in their negotiations.

Voigt asked him to have a drink. He had been impressed by his work, especially in the courtroom, he said. And Thackery Smith had been as well. He had heard of him anyway-he and Judge Sullivan had been on law review together-and had researched him. Had he ever considered leaving the U.S. Attorney's Office and coming to the dark side?

He would have been lying if he said he hadn't. All around him, people were leaving. Citizen, he knew, was talking to an international firm in Washington, D.C. Rhodes was wondering whether he should go in-house at a bank. He himself had been approached by two other firms, and had turned them both down. They loved the U.S. Attorney's Office, all of them. But Citizen and Rhodes were older than he was, and Rhodes and his wife wanted to have a baby, and they needed to make money. Money, money: it was all they spoke of sometimes.

He, too, thought of money-it was impossible not to. Every time he came home from a party at one of JB's or Malcolm's friends' apartments, Lispenard Street seemed a little shabbier, a little less tolerable. Every time the elevator broke and he had to walk up the flights of stairs, and then rest on the floor in the hallway, his back against their front door, before he had the energy to let himself in, he dreamed of living somewhere functional and reliable. Every time he was standing at the top of the subway stairs, readying himself for the climb down, gripping the handrail and nearly breathing through his mouth with effort, he would wish he could take a taxi. And then there were other fears, bigger fears: in his very dark moments, he imagined himself as an old man, his skin stretched vellum-like over his ribs, still in Lispenard Street, pulling himself on his elbows to the bathroom because he was no longer able to walk. In this dream, he was alone-there was no Willem or JB or Malcolm or Andy, no Harold or Julia. He was an old, old man, and there was no one, and he was the only one left to take care of himself.

"How old are you?" asked Voigt.

"Thirty-one," he said.

"Thirty-one's young," said Voigt, "but you won't be young forever. Do you really want to grow old in the U.S. Attorney's Office? You know what they say about assistant prosecutors: Men whose best years are behind them." He talked about compensation, about an accelerated path to partnership. "Just tell me you'll think about it."

"I will," he said.

And he did. He didn't discuss it with Citizen or Rhodes-or Harold, because he knew what he'd say-but he did discuss it with Willem, and together they debated the obvious benefits of the job against the obvious drawbacks: the hours (but he never left work as it was, Willem argued), the tedium, the high probability he'd be working with assholes (but Citizen and Rhodes aside, he already worked with assholes, Willem argued). And, of course, the fact that he would now be defending the people he'd spent the past six years prosecuting: liars and crooks and thieves, the entitled and the powerful masquerading as victims. He wasn't like Harold or Citizen-he was practical; he knew that making a career as a lawyer meant sacrifices, either of money or of moralities, but it still troubled him, this forsaking of what he knew to be just. And for what? So he could insure he wouldn't become that old man, lonely and sick? It seemed the worst kind of selfishness, the worst kind of self-indulgence, to disavow what he knew was right simply because he was frightened, because he was scared of being uncomfortable and miserable.

Then, two weeks after his meeting with Voigt, he had come home one Friday night very late. He was exhausted; he'd had to use his wheelchair that day because the wound on his right leg hurt so much, and he was so relieved to get home, back to Lispenard Street, that he had felt himself go weak-in just a few minutes, he would be inside, and he would wrap a damp washcloth, hot and steamed from the microwave, around his calf and sit in the warmth. But when he tried the elevator button, he heard nothing but a grinding of gears, the faint winching noise the machine made when it was broken.

"No!" he shouted. "No!" His voice echoed in the lobby, and he smacked his palm against the elevator door again and again: "No, no, no!" He picked up his briefcase and threw it against the ground, and papers spun up from it. Around him, the building remained silent and unhelpful.

Finally he stopped, ashamed and angry, and gathered his papers back into his bag. He checked his watch: it was eleven. Willem was in a play, Cloud 9, but he knew he'd be off stage by then. But when he called him, Willem didn't pick up. And then he began to panic. Malcolm was on vacation in Greece. JB was at an artists' colony. Andy's daughter, Beatrice, had just been born the previous week: he couldn't call him. There were only so many people he would let help him, whom he felt at least semi-comfortable clinging to like a sloth, whom he would allow to drag him up the many flights.

But in that moment, he was irrationally, intensely desperate to get into the apartment. And so he stood, tucking his briefcase under his left arm and collapsing his wheelchair, which was too expensive to leave in the lobby, with his right. He began to work his way up the stairs, cleaving his left side to the wall, gripping the chair by one of its spokes. He moved slowly-he had to hop on his left leg, while trying to avoid putting any weight on his right, or letting the wheelchair bang against the wound. Up he went, pausing to rest every third step. There were a hundred and ten steps from the lobby to the fifth floor, and by the fiftieth, he was shaking so badly he had to stop and sit for half an hour. He called and texted Willem again and again. On the fourth call, he left the message he hoped he would never have to leave: "Willem, I really need help. Please call me. Please." He had a vision of Willem calling him right back, telling him he'd be right there, but he waited and waited and Willem didn't call, and finally he managed to stand again.

Somehow he made it inside. But he can't remember anything else from that night; when he woke the next day, Willem was asleep on the rug next to his bed, and Andy asleep on the chair they must have dragged into his room from the living room. He was thick-tongued, fogged, nauseated, and he knew that Andy must have given him an injection of pain medication, which he hated: he would feel disoriented and constipated for days.

When he woke again, Willem was gone, but Andy was awake, and staring at him.