“Where’s Joey?” The question echoed through the kitchen. Lance looked at Justin and Justin looked at JC and JC looked at Lance and it was a big circle of looks and no one knew anything. Not anything.

And because JC was looking at Lance, he saw the tears first, and because Justin was looking at JC, he saw the extreme fear. No one saw what happened to Justin’s face.

“We can’t assume,” Justin started to say. He would have continued if Lance hadn’t yelled, hadn’t lunged in his direction, to get him to stop offering hope, false hope because Lance knew he was gone. JC stopped him, though. Fragile, emaciated JC and Justin couldn’t believe his strength but he stopped him.

Lance crumpled then, still staring at Justin but not seeing him, not seeing him at all. Justin stared back until Lance’s face fell, buried itself in his hands and he sobbed, shoulders shaking and pressed against floor. JC pulled him up, got Lance’s face and shoulders in his lap and held him in his small, bony arms and Justin, moving slowly, as if he was approaching a wild, wounded animal, moved around the table and wrapped his arms slowly around JC until he held JC, who was still cradling Lance.

He pressed his face against JC’s bowed neck and could hear JC’s whispered words over the litany of Lance’s “no’s.”

“It should have been me,” JC said, like a mantra, even though he knew, more than any of them, that it didn’t matter.

Lance fell asleep in JC’s lap, tears still leaking out from under his eyelids and every few seconds his smooth, even breathing hitched in a small sob.

“My legs are asleep,” JC said, and Justin reached around to move Lance, but JC stopped him. “No, it’s okay. Leave him.”

Justin leaned against the wall, his arms still around JC, his fingers lightly stroking his warm skin. He could see the window from this angle and watched as the gray sky became black.

He jerked awake suddenly, sitting up from the wall and almost dislodging JC, who’d been curled against his chest. Lance still lay across JC’s lap, his face pressed against JC’s stomach. Justin heard it again, a knock at the door.

Moving slowly, he extricated himself from the tangle on the floor. He felt a weird sense of déjŕ vu as he opened the door, except this time there was no van this time when he looked around, only the huddled figure against the frame.

“Who are you?” he asked, though he knew the question wouldn't be answered. No one answered the question anymore.

The words were whispered, rushed out of the shaking mouth. “They didn’t take him. They shot him.”

Justin felt his blood freeze. This was worse than not knowing because with not knowing came hope. The man turned away, his message delivered, before Justin had the presence of mind to ask, “Where?”

So he watched the man walk away, bowed against the streetlights and shuffling hurriedly. He knew he couldn’t raise his voice to call after him, so he turned to wake JC and Lance. Still alive, Joey was still alive and they could save him.