His parents told me he was still sleeping downstairs, so I knocked loudly on the basement door before entering, then asked, “Gus?”
I found him mumbling in a language of his own creation. He’d pissed the bed. It was awful. I couldn’t even look, really.
I just shouted for his parents and they came down, and I went upstairs while they cleaned him up.
When I came back down, he was slowly waking up out of the narcotics to the excruciating day.
I arranged his pillows so we could play Counterinsurgence on the bare sheetless mattress,
but he was so tired and out of it that he sucked almost as bad as I did, and we couldn’t go five minutes without both getting dead.
Not fancy heroic deaths either, just careless ones. I didn’t really say anything to him.
I almost wanted him to forget I was there, I guess, and I was hoping he didn’t remember that I’d found the boy I love deranged in a wide pool of his own piss.
I kept kind of hoping that he’d look over at me and say, “Oh, Hazel Grace. How’d you get here?”
But unfortunately, he remembered. “With each passing minute, I’m developing a deeper appreciation of the word mortified,” he said finally.
“I’ve pissed the bed, Gus, believe me. It’s no big deal.” “You used,” he said, and then took a sharp breath, “to call me Augustus.”
“You know,” he said after a while, “it’s kids’ stuff, but I always thought my obituary would be in all the newspapers,
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