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embraced them, Skeet said sympathetically, “Wow. So it wasn’t like a term of endearment, huh?”
    “No. Not like
feeb.
”
    Frowning, Skeet said, “Which one was your dad?”
    “Dr. Trevor Penn Rhodes, professor of literature, specialist in deconstructionist theory.”
    “Oh, yeah. Dr. Decon.”
    Gazing at the Santa Ana Mountains, Dusty paraphrased Dr. Decon: “Language can’t describe reality. Literature has no stable reference, no real meaning. Each reader’s interpretation is equally valid, more important than the author’s intention. In fact, nothing in life has meaning. Reality is subjective. Values and truth are subjective. Life itself is a kind of illusion. Blah, blah, blah, let’s have another Scotch.”
    The distant mountains sure looked real. The roof under his butt felt real, too, and if he fell headfirst onto the driveway, he would either be killed or crippled for life, which wouldn’t prove a thing to the intractable Dr. Decon, but which was enough reality for Dusty.
    “Is he why you’re afraid of heights,” Skeet asked, “because of something he did?”
    “Who—Dr. Decon? Nah. Heights just bother me, that’s all.”
    Sweetly earnest in his concern, Skeet said, “You could find out why. Talk to a psychiatrist.”
    “I think I’ll just go home and talk to my dog.”
    “I’ve had a lot of therapy.”
    “And it’s done wonders for you, hasn’t it?”
    Skeet laughed so hard that snot ran out of his nose. “Sorry.”
    Dusty withdrew a Kleenex from a pocket and offered it.
    As Skeet blew his nose, he said, “Well, me…now I’m a different story. Longer than I can remember, I’ve been afraid of
everything.
”
    “I know.”
    “Getting up, going to bed, and everything between. But I’m not afraid now.” He finished with the Kleenex and held it out to Dusty.
    “Keep it,” Dusty said.
    “Thanks. Hey, you know why I’m not afraid anymore?”
    “Because you’re shitfaced?”
    Skeet laughed shakily and nodded. “But also because I’ve seen the Other Side.”
    “The other side of what?”
    “Capital
O,
capital
S.
I had a visitation from an angel of death, and he showed me what’s waiting for us.”
    “You’re an atheist,” Dusty reminded him.
    “Not anymore. I’m past all that. Which should make you happy, huh, bro?”
    “How easy for you. Pop a pill, find God.”
    Skeet’s grin emphasized the skull beneath the skin, which was frighteningly close to the surface in his gaunt countenance. “Cool, huh? Anyway, the angel instructed me to jump, so I’m jumping.”
    Abruptly the wind rose, skirling across the roof, chillier than before, bringing with it the briny scent of the distant sea—and then briefly, like an augury, came the rotten stink of decomposing seaweed.
    Standing up and negotiating a steeply pitched roof in this blustery air was a challenge that Dusty did not want to face, so he prayed that the wind would diminish soon.
    Taking a risk, assuming that Skeet’s suicidal impulse actually arose, as he insisted, from his newfound fearlessness, and hoping that a good dose of terror would make the kid want to cling to life again, Dusty said, “We’re only forty feet off the ground, and from the edge of the roof to the pavement, it’s probably only thirty or thirty-two. Jumping would be a classic feeb decision, because what you’re going to do is maybe end up not dead but paralyzed for life, hooked up to machines for the next forty years, helpless.”
    “No, I’ll die,” Skeet said almost perkily.
    “You can’t be sure.”
    “Don’t get an attitude with me, Dusty.”
    “I’m not getting an attitude.”
    “Just denying you have an attitude
is
an attitude.”
    “Then I’ve got an attitude.”
    “See.”
    Dusty took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “This is so lame. Let’s get down from here. I’ll drive you over to the Four Seasons Hotel in Fashion Island. We can go all the way up to the roof, fourteen, fifteen floors, whatever it is, and you can