Page 70 of Angel of Thursdays

He stood, heading through the French doors, then sat down on the couch with the lights off. Through the doors he could still hear May’s breathing, uneven, catching. Not asleep. Shifting, a creak of the mattress, then a slurp of tea.

Cassiel took out his phone. Three missed calls from his mother.

He sent a voice recording: He’s here. He’s fine. I’ll call tomorrow.

Her response arrived in under a minute, a sticker of a crying bear holding a small chicken.

He put the phone down and breathed out. The thinking was working now—not the circling from the car but something with edges, something he could hold. May had a condition. The condition had symptoms, triggers, a frequency. These could be measured and if they could be measured, they could be addressed.

He stood up and walked back into the bedroom.

May was where he’d left him. Jacket still on, two more sips taken from the tea. He looked up.

“You need to see a doctor,” Cassiel said.

May’s hands tightened on the mug. “I have a doctor.”

“What happened tonight wasn’t—” He stopped. Readjusted. “What you described sounds like something that’s getting worse. The frequency, the duration. You should tell your doctor.”

“I have told my doctor. Post-concussion syndrome, they know about it, I have the—” May gestured vaguely at his own head. “The whole file. MRIs, CT scans, the works. It’s documented.”

“Then they should know it’s escalating.”

“It’s not escalating, it was one bad night⁠—”

“One bad night that had you leaving my house without saying anything, wandering the city for hours, and left you sitting on my step in the dark. You couldn’t tell me where you were going. You couldn’t tell yourself.”

May set the mug on the nightstand. The click was careful.

“I know what I did, Cassiel.”

“Then you know you need to see someone about it.”

“Okay, you know what happens if I go back to the doctor? I’m two hundred dollars out of pocket and my doctor says, ‘May, you should drink more water and get more sleep. Have you thought about therapy?’ And⁠—”

“That’s one or two STDY bookings. You should be taken seriously. I’ll⁠—”

“What, go with me? Like you’re my dad?” May’s voice cracked on the word. “I know I fucked up, Cassiel. I’m really, really fucking sorry. I know what I did.”

“I’m not saying you don’t know. I’m saying we should have a plan for when it happens again. So I know what to look for, so I can—” The ring was clicking. He was clicking it. Couldn’t stop. “You should tell me when you feel it starting. So I can prepare.”

The words left his mouth and he heard the amplitude error—a fraction off true.

“So you can manage it.” May’s voice had dropped. The quietest Cassiel had heard from him, an echo of their argument on Christmas night but rougher.

“So I can help,” Cassiel said.

“So you can manage me,” May said. “Because you want a version of me you can plan around.”

The sentence scalded. Cassiel’s ring went still.

He should have said That’s not what I want. What came out instead⁠—

“My father drove forty minutes from Fremont,” he said, because he was thinking of the man who had left him the instruction to drink something warm. He’d made the tea. “He didn’t ask questions. He picked up the keys and drove.”

May heard something else. Cassiel saw it happen, saw the flinch, tiny and suppressed.

“I know,” May said. “I know he drove, I saw his car. I know I walked out on your mom’s dinner and left Jaewon and—God. I know what it means and I know sorry isn’t good enough but I can’t be good enough right now. And you’re telling me your family’s worry is proof I need a plan.” May’s voice was thin now.