“That sounds . . . thoughtful.”
“It’s fucking bananas! And his handwriting, Finn, it’s like calligraphy. Who writes like that on a whiteboard? That’s not normal. It’s a cry for help.”
Jacks appeared from the back, carrying a case of limes. He’d clearly missed the introduction to my tale. “How was the first night?”
“I woke up with a furry demon on my face. A different demon was inside my shoe, and a third was on top of the door, Jacks.On topof the door. Thetopedge. Balanced. Like a little furry Simone Biles.”
“That sounds adorable.”
“It was terrifying. I thought I was being haunted by tiny ghosts. And then . . . get this . . . Peter communicated with mevia Post-it note—not a conversation, Jacks. He didn’t use words from his mouth like a person. He wrote a Post-it note and stuck iton the fridge. There were instructions, like I’m some contractor he’s hired to perform a service.”
Mark came through from the office, laptop under his arm. “How’s the new living situation?”
“He has a tutorial binder,” I said, no longer sure to whom I was speaking.
Mark stopped. “For what?”
“For the kittens. Keep up here, Mark. He has a freakin’ binder with pages dedicated to the feeding and care of each pet. He told me to read page twelve before I could touch them. Pagetwelve! What are pages one through eleven? What happens on page thirteen? Am I preparing for a pop quiz or something?”
Mark tilted his head, considering. “I mean, that’s actually pretty responsible. If you’re fostering animals, a care guide makes sense. It’s good practice.”
“Mark. Mark! You’re supposed to be onmyside here. Peter is a pet psychopath!”
Mark shrugged. “I’m on the side of organizational clarity.”
“You’re a traitor,” I shouted, rolling my R like Alan Cumming on the reality show I would never get enough of.
Mia walked in ten minutes into my shift. She had the day off and was apparently drawn to the bar by our group chat activity like a shark to blood in thewater. She ordered a soda, sat at the bar, and propped her chin in her hand.
“Tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning, and don’t skip anything.”
So I repeated the tale I’d already told three—no, four times.
I told all of them, in installments between drink orders, in fragments during slow moments and in a continuous, rolling monologue. This became known in Barbacks lore as the first episode of what the crew would come to callThe Roommate Chronicles.
“He has a special coffee mug?” Mia asked with the delighted focus of someone watching a particularly funny prank being pulled in front of her. “And he told you not to touch it.”
“He said, ‘Don’t use the blue one,’ with the same passion a person might use to say, ‘Don’t touch the nuclear launch codes.’”
“What does the blue mug look like?”
“It’s just a blue mug. There’s nothing special, no logo or writing. It’s just blue.”
“There’s a story behind that mug,” Mia said with absolute certainty. “Nobody protects a plain blue mug like that unless it means something.”
I hadn’t thought about that.
Now I was thinking about it.
Now I was going to obsess about it for the rest of the day.
“What’s he look like?” Mia asked.
“What?”
“Newspaper Robe Man. What does he look like? You’ve only described the robe. I need the full picture.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
