Infected

49.

Bill Miller stared at the TV. Columbo was on the Sunday-Morning Mystery Movie, but he wasn’t really watching. His fingers drummed against the remote control.

What the hell was Perry doing? Didn’t answer his phone. Didn’t answer instant messages. Didn’t answer his door. Bill hadn’t gone this long without talking to Perry since they’d first roomed together in college. Something was wrong. Really wrong, like “Oh, fuck, my parachute won’t open” wrong.

Bill had called a dozen times so far, leaving a message every time but never getting a response. He’d watched his IM client, seeing if Perry would log on: nothing. He’d even left a friggin’ note, like some psycho girl.

Perry was obviously home, and he wanted to be left alone. But man, this was Sunday. Fucking football Sunday. Their tradition dated back almost a decade, through tertiary friends that came and went, through seven girlfriends (five on Bill’s side, two on Perry’s-the only game that Bill had a chance of winning against the super-athlete).

Well screw this. Perry didn’t get to hide in that tiny apartment, not when football Sunday was on. Bill needed to see him, needed to know everything was all right. Perry was capable of such violent outbursts-one incident might put him in jail. Bill had to reach him, just to make sure his friend wasn’t about to fuck up his life yet again.

Bill picked up the phone and called his best friend one more time.