possibility. Others walked alone, consumed by some unknown gloom or simply under-caffeinated, fiercely typing messages into their cell phones. The purposeful unrest of their bodies made visible the void between Fitz and the student-tour guide. And for a brief moment Fitz imagined that the boy's privileged grumbles could not be merely transactional; that he had debts and deadlines—that there was always something more to angst. It occurred to him that they were both roughly the same age; that they both worked for Columbia, both under the watchful gaze of Alma Mater. And it made just as lucid the possibility that the boy shared this instinct. That this skinny dark-skinned kid was just as capable of imagining something hidden but true about Fitz—recognizing that beneath what may have looked like the face of an imbecile were lifetimes of half-remembered dread. It was only an instant, but the steady to-and-fro of student body stirred between them something akin to wind, pushing both men to the precipice of empathy.

"Can I ask you something?" Fitz said softly. "If this machine keeps taking your cash, why do you keep using it?"

And just like that, the smirk came off the student's face. He stepped closer, eyes perfectly in line with the blue nametag stitched on Fitz's chest pocket. "Do you like your job..." he spoke through his teeth. "...Fitz?"

Still provisional, Fitz has been working in maintenance only a few months. Any mishap, mistake, or citation could prevent him from getting in the union, even cost him the job. He fought hard for it and the idea of losing it unnerved him. Without it he was stuck at his father's house, soaking up his wallowing, his defeated presence, the confused, nervous space that grew between them since he returned. But what disturbed him even more than the actual threat was the finger. Fitz broke the last finger that was stuck in his face, though he had trouble remembering when or who the finger belonged to. All he remembered was the rage. Like a piece of broken glass, it was an emotion too sharp and oddly shaped to go down his memory sinkhole. So lurid in fact that suddenly he forgot where he was going or what he was doing in the hallway in the first place. The glass began to melt like a warm balm, coating his insides. It was a cozy, familiar sensation—familiar enough to frighten him. So he put his other hand on the mop cart and pushed in the only direction that still made sense—away from the boy.

"Another day, another dollar..." Fitz stopped. Did I just say that? he thought. He heard the words. He felt their pressure behind his eyeballs. But he wasn't sure whether he thought them, or spoke them, or if they came from somewhere else. Another day, another dollar—and something that felt like razorblades turned inside his skull. He cupped his palms over his eyes, but the pain was too bright.

"Did you just say something?" Fitz turned and shut his eyes to hear better.

The boy shook the vending machine feebly. "I said, another day, another dollar," he struck it with his boney fist. "Another dollar wasted."

Fitz always fought back, but when he opened his eyes he saw nothing. And whenever it happened, whenever the blindness swarmed and seized him—first in junior high school just because, then high school to impress the girls, and then at training camp in Paris Island, where they shot live rounds at him while he crawled under the barbed wire, and then when frolicking and horsing around shirtless with other Marines in scorching sand on the outskirts of Baghdad—it came in a riptide, spinning him beyond the septa of his own strength. That's when the air around him would suddenly thicken, turning into sweet, viscous ether, cocooning him in his own wrath. But Fitz always fought back. And just before he threw that first punch, the forward thrust of his fist, with all its momentum, was met with slow, teasing drag. But as soon