The realization hit me harder than the water. We weren't dealing with a maintenance issue. We were drowning in a physical manifestation of sorrow.
"Okay," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "Okay. New hypothesis. The structural integrity of The Cortex Club is directly correlated to the emotional state of the... of Adam. If he is crying, we get wet. Logical. Terrifying, but logical."
"So how do we make him stop?" Desi jumped down from the seat, tossing the bottle onto the soggy table. "I can't party in a swimming pool, Leo. My eyeliner is running."
"We need to stabilize the core," I muttered, pacing in the puddle. Splash, splash, splash. "We need to get him here. Once he's here, we can organize his problems. We can categorize them. We can fix them."
A shadow fell over the table.
I stopped pacing.
The Bartender was standing there. I hadn't heard them approach over the sound of the indoor rain. They were standing ankle-deep in the water, but their shoes—the ones with the red mud on them—looked perfectly dry.
The Bartender held out a hand.
Another napkin.
"Oh no," I backed away. "No more notes. The last note was a disaster. I reject this input."
The Bartender didn't blink. They just held the napkin out further, right in my face. Their eyes were sad. Infinitely sad. They looked like the eyes of a dog watching its owner pack a suitcase.
"Take it, Leo," Desi whispered. She sounded scared.
I reached out with a trembling hand. The napkin was dry, miraculously.
I took it. The Bartender turned and walked away, fading back toward the bar like a ghost in a fog.
I looked down at the paper.
"What's the excuse this time?" Desi asked, leaning over my shoulder. "Traffic? Alien abduction? Jury duty?"
I unfolded the paper.
There were only five words.
Adam is in the hospital.
"The hospital?" Desi let out a sharp breath. "Okay. Okay, that tracks. If he... if he tried something... maybe he’s okay. Maybe he’s getting help. Hospitals are good, right? Doctors. Medicine. Jello."
"Yeah," Greg mumbled, lifting his head slightly. "Hospitals are safe. Bright lights. No sharp edges."
Relief washed over them. I could see it. They were buying it. The note was an explanation, a lifeline.
But I wasn't relieved. I was staring at the ink.
"Leo?" Desi nudged me. "Why do you look like you’re about to throw up? This is good news. He’s safe."
"Look at the handwriting," I whispered.
"It’s messy," she shrugged. "He’s probably groggy."
"It’s not just messy, Desi." I held the napkin up to the flickering light of the beer sign. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Look at the loops on the 'L'. Look at the sharp angle of the 'A'. Look at the spacing."
I reached into my inner suit pocket and pulled out my notebook—the one with the ruined gazebo drawing. I flipped to a page of my own notes.
Projected timeline for evening.
Optimal seating arrangement.
List of grievances.
I held my notebook next to the napkin.
Desi looked. Then she looked closer. She gasped, pulling back as if the paper had burned her.
The handwriting on the napkin wasn't Adam's.
It was mine.
"I didn't write this," I stammered, dropping the napkin into the puddle on the table. "I swear to you, I didn't write this. I’ve been standing right here!"
"Then who did?" Desi whispered, staring at me with wide, fearful eyes.
"I don't know," I said, but deep down, in the part of my brain that I usually keep locked behind heavy doors, I knew exactly what it meant.
Adam wasn't sending us excuses.
I was.
I was the one making up the reasons why he couldn't face us. I was the logic inventing the lie to protect us from the truth. And if I was lying to myself...
The lights in the bar flickered. Once. Twice.
Then, The Cortex Club plunged into total darkness.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.