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“Benny Wake up”

He pushes up onto an elbow and, with his other hand, wipes the sleep from his eyes His Aussie accent comes out hoarse: “What time is it?”

I look at the phone I have gripped in my clammy palm “Five thirty”

He stares at me with squinty, incredulous eyes “Is somebody dead?”

“No”

“Missing?”

“No”

“Bleeding profusely?”

“Mentally bleeding, yes” I step deeper into the roohan, and sit in a wicker chair that faces the bed “Help”

At fifty-five years old, Benny still has the same fluffy sandy-brown hair he’s sported my entire life It reaches just past his chin, wavy like it was permed for years and at soine he was a roadie for sohties rock band, or an adventurer who led rich tourists to their doom out in the bush The reality—he’s a Portland locksle of turquoise bracelets and beaded necklaces at least lets me pretend

Right now that hair is led halo of chaos around his head

With each of the twelve other bodies in this house, I’ve got deep history, but Benny is special He’s a college friend of rown-ups in this house attended the University of Utah together, except Kyle, who roup—but Benny has always been ure He’s from Melbourne, even-tempered and open-minded Benny is the eternal bachelor, the wise adviser, and the one person in iveout of control

When I was a kid, I would save up ossip until I saw him over the Fourth of July weekend or Christ the iving the si I’ his level head can save me now