Marsh picked them up late Saturday morning so they could drive the Buick home, but upon arriving at the workplace, Reg spontaneously decided he wanted to work. Zephyr waved Marsh off and reluctantly followed Reg into the building. He took his wet jacket off and spread it across two coathooks so it would dry faster, patted his hair dry with a paper towel in the men's room, and settled in his office to try to relax. The roar of machinery directly below him occasionally broke the silence. He skimmed his email, but it all involved tasks that seemed inappropriate for a Saturday. He never could understand the appeal of email. It was about as exciting as regular mail, and consisted of many of the same things - junk, bills, newsletters, and correspondence with the health care professionals who worked with his clients.

After helping himself to the last of the grapes in the fridge, he returned to the computer and did some research. It was easier if he didn't allow himself to fully think through the reasons why he did it. When he found some helpful information, he printed it out, tucked it into an envelope addressed to Portia, and put it in the outgoing mail basket on Mariluz's desk. He'd have to remember to call her later in the week to ask her what she thought.

Zephyr glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was already after 2:00 pm. He hadn't even considered what he was going to do about lunch yet. Ordering take-out didn't appeal to him, if only because he didn't feel like staring at the rain while he waited for the delivery kid to show up. He opened his drawer and found the last two Power Bars. He didn't like the idea of eating Reg's Power Bars, but he supposed they could swing by the store on the way home and buy more. Setting one aside to bring down to Reg later, he took the other one - Apple Cinnamon, the wrapper proclaimed - for himself. He sliced the wrapper open in the paper cutter and slid the bar out.

"Blech," he said to no one. "How does he eat this crap?" It didn't taste like apple cinnamon to him. It was more like a Tootsie Roll with all the candy ingredients replaced by dehydrated oatmeal, or something. But his stomach told him it wanted more, so he took another bite. After a while, it wasn't so bad. Maybe, he mused, his taste buds had shut down out of necessity. Drinking some water to alleviate the heavy dryness of the Power Bar helped, too.

He turned off the light, sat on the sofa, and then changed his mind and sank into the heavy upholstery of the chair that faced it. That made him feel better. It was his chair; sitting in it was like... hmmm... a security blanket, maybe, or comfort food. The Power Bar had definitely not been comfort food.

Not that he had anything to seek comfort from... except for... y'know...

He wondered where to start. Maybe he could avoid the problem entirely. No, his mind wouldn't let him, and it chose this quiet, peaceful moment to dredge it up again. Maybe if he distracted himse--... no. Dammit.

Last night he had asked Marsh for help. There was no way to take it back now.

He couldn't even remember what possessed him to do that. At the time, it had made some twisted kind of sense - in order to prove himself worthy, he had to admit to a fault that was already obvious, and this act of humility earned him enough respect to deserve Marsh's help somehow... somehow... ah, but it was all lost to him now. Now it just felt as if he'd painted a bull's-eye on his forehead and handed Marsh a BB gun.

But Marsh wouldn't take advantage of him like that, would he? If Zephyr understood correctly, Marsh had come just short of agreeing to help him.

Then again, Marsh was the one responsible for dragging him and Reg out of the closet last year. It had to be Marsh; none of the other EuC employees knew Tracy, and Tracy was the only one he'd come out to. Was Marsh untrustworthy? That thought gave him a headache. It was just a mistake, right? It probably wasn't even all Marsh's doing. Friends hurt each other inadvertently sometimes, right?

He did it himself occasionally... right?

Like that time when Reg was working on his master's degree, and Zephyr had to go into the lab to get him... every day after work he took the bus to the school, get Reg, and Reg would drive them home. Most of the graduate students and the professors knew him and allowed him access into the lab facilities. But that day a student he'd never seen before stopped him at the security desk and refused to let him through. He explained his purpose and then gave a quick description of Reg, and she looked him square in the eye and laughed, "Oh, you mean the Rain Man! Nobody around here knows his name, so we've been calling him the Rain Man, like in that movie." Overcome with fury, Zephyr tried to defend Reg against her, but he couldn't find the words. So he just stood there gawking at her stupidly while she make more jokes at Reg's expense to somebody on the other side of the lobby. He never could forgive himself for not standing up to her. But that was life... people walked all over him, and he was in no position to fight back. Not even for Reg's sake. His only option was to creep quietly through life, keeping Reg close to him, and try not to draw undue attention.

So he was right to keep his mouth shut. Because if he'd had a choice and he'd chosen wrong...

But he never had that kind of choice. He made do, better than expected even, with what he had, but he always had very little. He succeeded by respecting his limits and not trying to overstep them. He'd earned everything he had by being patient, staying out of the notice of the people who were bigger and better than him, making as little noise as possible, and keeping Reg close and quiet. That was the only way for him. If he tried to forge ahead loudly like other people, he'd fail.

Right?

That's how he'd kept his job at Mr. Paise's fix-it shop. He never asked for help or complained or demanded anything; he just absorbed Mr. Paise's instructions quietly and worked when he was ready. He silently tolerated the displeased glares of the customers and their comments to his boss about how he'd only be trouble, he should be fired, what did John want a no-good kid like Zephyr working for him anyway? He never spoke up when they brought in their damaged toasters and busted TV sets and demanded that he not be allowed to touch their precious appliances, or by God, John would not have their business again. He just took their money and handed them their change and wished them a nice day as they pointedly ignored him. And John Paise, a gruff man of few words and very little patience, told him to do the jobs anyway. When Zephyr showed up frazzled from a tough day at school, Mr. Paise let him hide in the back room as long as he wanted to, as long as he worked. He had that job for six years, all because he didn't make waves. It was the same with every job he had (except when he worked for Mr. Hojke, who tried to fire him every day until the day he dropped from heat exhaustion, and then decided a teenager willing to kill himself over a job must be worth having around).

It was a general rule of life. That rule's twin was this: never get close to people, because someone was guaranteed to get hurt.

Okay, maybe those rules didn't apply to everyone's life. But they applied to his, beyond a doubt. Reg provided an exception because he was... well, he was Reg. Reg operated on an exceptional level. In fact, the one thing Zephyr could say with any confidence that he did right was protecting Reg. It was easy to forgive himself for not speaking up for Reg's sake, or for his own, because he knew that speaking up wouldn't have protected them. They were only safe as long as he kept them invisible.

So accepting Marsh's help, even opening up to Marsh and whoever else wanted to be a friend, was not an option. Opening up would shatter the protective wall Zephyr had carefully built and nurtured. That wall was the only thing he had ever done right. Destroying it because he momentarily craved acknowledgement, attention, acceptance... no. No. He couldn't. He had to protect himself and Reg.

But he couldn't protect him by himself. Wasn't that what had caused the problem in the first place? When Reg couldn't drive them home, Zephyr's stupid fears prevented him from taking over. What good was he if he couldn't solve such simple, basic, stupid problems? His mother was right; he really was just an overgrown child playing house and forcing Reg to play the dependent.

But what other options did he have? What else could he possibly do with what life gave him?

Well, for one, he could... he could let his friends help.

"My friends." Zephyr said the words aloud to find out how they sounded. They sounded sick, surreal, disturbing. They made him feel nauseated. Because if he had friends, then the people who were his friends wanted to be his friends. Which meant that they thought he deserved their friendship. Which meant that he didn't have to stay out of sight after all. Which meant that the past thirty-three years of carefully, vigilantly tiptoeing on the very edge of society had all been a waste. A big, lifetime-long waste that had damaged him more than standing up for himself would have. He hadn't done remarkably well with what he had; on the contrary, he had squandered it... and dragged Reg down with him.

Okay, so, the one thing he thought he'd done right turned out to be the biggest mistake he ever made. He could learn to accept that (if it didn't tear him apart first). So now that he'd made this revelation... what was next? The obvious answer was to dig himself a bigger cave and plant himself so deep inside that no one would ever--

No! No. That wasn't the only option. The other option would be to become the person his friends expected him to be. That person, he supposed, was himself... but with the ability to accept them as friends in return. He could step forward instead of just retreat again. He could do it. But how? To do that, he'd have to open up and allow himself to be vulnerable, and how could he possibly survive that, knowing now that he'd screwed up his own life so badly?

He'd have to separate himself from his mistake. The mistake didn't define him if he didn't let it. Oh, but that sounded really difficult. He didn't know whether he'd be able to do it. What if he failed?

And how did he go about being a friend? Marsh and Tracy and Oscar and the others all had practice. They all knew the right and wrong things to say to a friend. He didn't know any of that. What if they got impatient with his floundering attempts to keep up? He couldn't do it; he was over thirty years behind; he was going to ruin everything. He was going to ruin everything. He couldn't do it.

But they expected him to try. Okay, he could try. Maybe they knew what to expect. He and Marsh had known each other for several years; maybe Marsh understood his disadvantage, and... maybe it would work out.

After all, look at all he and Marsh had weathered so far.

He walked over to the window and looked out at the rain and wondered if it was worth his while to ask Reg to take him home.