—and I study his music like an apprentice. There’s Metallica and W.A.S.P. and Queen and Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin; I put on the Led Zeppelin and play “Stairway to Heaven” over and over. I lie on my bed and close my eyes and think if I keep listening to this one song at some point he’ll be listening too. I know there’s supposed to be a backwards message and that it’s supposed to be evil but I don’t believe it.

and the window is shattered and he’s long gone. The floor is littered with broken records. A policeman picks up one of the smooth vinyl shards and rubs his thumb across the grooves. He glances at the album covers strewn across the bed and chooses one, flips it open, shakes his head.

Sometimes he knocks on the wall, and I go to his room, and he shows me the records. I sit beside him and read about death and God and the devil and war and sex and hate and love. I know he’s sharing things with me that he can’t say out loud. He talks less than he used to.