i.
He makes the call from the balcony, pushing her name reluctantly: rip off the plaster and be done. The mantra "it's nothing" echoes in his head as he sits down, sliding back in the chair and stretching out in the seat. She picks up on the second ring, her voice loud enough to make him pull the phone back from his ear. His reflective "Calm down," probes as unhelpful as it seems, a wall of sound unleashed, the only intelligible words Amy, father, you. He can feel the bile from his stomach creep into his throat, burning as he swallows, sitting up, then leaning forwards, then standing again.

"I didn't tell --" he begins, but his voice is uncharacteristically small. You did this, to us, to her, to them. He thinks to mention the ease with which one can google the address to her practice, or the public knowledge of their lives: they have all reached various levels of recognition that would allow anyone to locate one of them, but it's his fault. He mailed off the test, when she warned him not to. He agreed to see them in person, and told no one.


ii.
"He's clean." The room is quiet, a chorus of sighs filling the air.

"And he didn't -- he was okay with --" it was a question nobody wanted to ask directly, expecting the worst. Things had, for the most part, evened out over time, but the memories of the past still lingered, the fear of another outburst that would derail, even if it were in protest of a difficult thing to ask.

"It was his idea."


iii.
"Do you want me to try to call? Maybe she'll --"

He shakes his head as he scrolls through his phone, trying to interpret the last message she sent, as though some indication of what was to come would suddenly appear. When did she find out? How long did she wait before confronting their mother, knowing what an explosion it would be? "It's fine," he says, gesturing to the interior of the van. "We're gonna be late. At least if this show is as shit as the last one, we'll be on time." He smiles, but it feels forced, looks forced, and the returned smiles are equally tense. They arrive as one, but they scatter momentarily, purposefully ducking the shadow of his unofficial sitters. He returns to them with smiles, and they exchange a worried glance.


iv.
"I thought it was us against them, bokkie. I expected this from her but you -- you should've said something. It isn't your place to decide whether or not they should be allowed to meet me. It's unfair to me, and to them, to be forced to go through some weird vetting process because you're … worried I might want to have a relationship ship with them. Stop calling. I'll call you when I'm ready to talk."


v.
He sits on the floor of the closet, back against the wall as the bottoms of he and Harlowe's clothing brush against his face. He rocks his head back and forth against the wood, staring upwards into the darkness, extending his arm as he runs his fingers along vein of his forearm, humming softly.


vi.
"Because I don't need to talk to anyone. I'm not a junkie any more. I don't -- do that. You've got what you needed. Your trained monkey. I shut up and play the songs."

"And perhaps you've really convinced yourself you don't. But it's more than not doing something. You still --" He doesn't have to finish the sentence: it's the urge to do it, it's the way he looks at bottle of pills, it's the way he can't do legal things in moderation, it's the inability to deal with emotional setbacks. "So it's either we have someone for you on the road with us or we cancel the tour. It's your call, Andy."