Man in the Empty Suit by Sean Ferrell Page B

that I would end up lying dead on a dinner table in a third-floor storage room. Still leaning over the Body, I made myself look at his face. The nose had my bump. This was me. Would be me.
    Screwdriver cleared his throat. From my perspective he was the three on a clock. Yellow was the nine, Seventy the twelve.
    Eyes so wet they could lick me, Seventy studied me across the table. “Something’s not right here.”
    I met his gaze. “What?”
    “This isn’t how I remember things. I’m getting confused.”
    Yellow nodded. “Me, too.”
    Screwdriver, also nodding, rubbed at his temples.
    Yellow looked at me. “You should have known already that he was shot.”
    I rubbed the gun in my pocket. “How should I have known?” I’d never wanted to look at something as much as I wanted to look at that gun at that moment.
    Seventy gripped the edge of the table for support. “This can’t fall apart. Not now.”
    Screwdriver grabbed a chair from the nearest stack and set it on the floor. He helped Seventy sit. Seventy patted his arm with affection, as a father would a son. Was I really to get so old that I thought of myself as a child? I wondered. Then I remembered that the corpse on the table before me was a possible answer to my question.
    Seventy took deep breaths and held his hands over his eyes. “I need a drink.”
    Both Screwdriver and Yellow looked from him to me with wide eyes. Yellow gestured to my jacket. “You’re the only one with anything.”
    With great reluctance I let go of the gun. I feared they would see through my pocket, as if my hand had offered it protection. I pulled the flask, newly heavy with scotch, and handed it to Yellow. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the flask toward Seventy’s nose like smelling salts, as if the odor alone would be enough. I knew it wouldn’t be.
    “Go on, give it to him,” I said. It was the first time I’d told an Elder what to do, the first time one had ever listened. This felt different. The confusion and fear on their faces put mein control. I was no longer tethered, I reminded myself. They didn’t know what I might do. Of course, neither did I.
    Yellow wrapped Seventy’s old fingers around the flask and held them there until they grasped on their own. When he let go, his hands shook a little. Seventy’s eyes were closed, wet running onto his cheeks—not tears, something thicker. He put the flask to his heavy lips and tilted it back. Scotch poured into his mouth, and he choked, spit it out, coughed again. I watched him with absurd fascination. He tipped it gently this time, gulped it down, stopped, and then tipped again.
    Yellow took hold of the old man’s hand, pulled the flask away. “I think that’s enough.”
    Seventy gave up the flask with effort, and Yellow passed it to me. I took a sip from it. He had emptied more than half. I promised myself to go back down and fill it. Perhaps steal a bottle.
    Seventy looked up at me. “The good scotch.”
    “Of course.” I wiped the flask mouth and recapped it.
    “You will have to hurry down to refill that. The Brats are about to run low.”
    Yellow didn’t like us chatting about alcohol. He shot me daggers as he patted Seventy on the back. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
    Seventy shuddered. “I’ve got some bad twinning going on. A lot of history that’s severed.” He looked from Yellow to Screwdriver and back. “Things aren’t as they should be. I remember both of your perspectives, but this isn’t how this played out. It’s getting muddy here. As if we’re all untethered.”
    “That’s just what he said, ‘untethered.’ ” Yellow pointing a finger at me. “When we were outside.”
    “Did I?” A silly denial. It was all I had.
    Yellow frowned at me. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember.” I wondered at what point I became so humorless.
    Seventy ran a hand over his face. “Suffering with youth. That’s all I’ve ever done.”
    “What can we do?” Fear was Yellow’s driving force.