My head turned to Vincent when I heard him say the name "Jerome." It was my name but also his now. He was talking about me while using my birth name—the person my parents wanted me to be.

I silently listened to him as he talked to whoever decided to call him non-stop last night. I kind of felt bad for Vincent. He seemed to not take the alcohol that well, but I wished I was drunk. I wish I was the drunk one so I did not have to pitifully wheel myself to my room and drag myself into bed, instead, I could have been carried into bed: a more enjoyable experience.

Last night, I was unlucky and mostly got tricked into drinking many shots of water, yet it was fun watching Vincent gag on the vodka shots so much that I did not mind that he almost always spit them out immediately. It is a miracle he has not vomited already.

I was trying to eavesdrop on Vincent's conversation but my mind was like a wild animal and would not stay still.

I tried to think of who would call Vincent so many times last evening and this morning. The first thought that made sense was one of the Gattaca directors. But one of them was dead and the other was probably in jail or awaiting a court date. I didn't know how many directors there were but surely the absence of two next to a launch date would be bad.

I took out a lighter that I had in addition to a box of Camel cigarettes. I quickly slipped one stick out and lit it, pressing it to my mouth like a woman about to apply lipstick.

For some reason, I began to think about Vincent's lover of sorts. I remembered the day she entered with a police officer. It was morning, and I had to cover for Vincent. I don't know why my thoughts had brought me back to her, maybe it was because I had envied Vincent's relationship with her, something true yet not. Maybe I thought I deserved it, like a kid getting a gold star after doing something marvellous, or maybe I just wanted to see if she would show me the same love she presumably showed Vincent: a similar type of love that I wanted yet never got from the people I paid to enter my house.

I also remembered the day Vincent went out ___. He had said, "If I'm gonna get arrested tomorrow, I'm going to go out tonight." She had come to pick him up, and I saw her in her car. She looked up at me, and we made eye contact for a bit. I wondered if Vincent had truly found love in her eyes. He had a girlfriend now, and thus he would be okay if I was gone. He couldn't have a normal relationship with her if I was still around, so I would have to die. I would be content with that conclusion.

I took a deep breath and blew it away like the thousands of dollars I would spend to try and experience some kind of love again. But I haven't hired anybody in a few months. I wonder why...

My mind bounced back to Vincent's secret call. He was trying to hide something from me, I could tell. He was vague in his replies. I suspected that it was about me. How much did I mess up this time? Vincent was my second chance, but now I had ruined that too. How many lives would I ruin? Vincent should have left me to die. He should have stayed on that rocket and flown to Titan like he dreamed of.

Maybe I could kill myself right now.

I popped my cigarette in and breathed in the toxic fumes, trying to inhale all the deadly molecules it could possibly have.

Maybe as I smoked, this would be my last cigarette and I would have a stroke or a heart attack and die.

I breathed out slowly yet fully, my cheeks puffed out. I could hear the sound of my breath hissing as it escaped through my mouth. Initially, the exhalation carried strength and resonance, echoing robustly. However, as I gradually reduced my check volume, the force waned, and the air's volume diminished. With each passing moment, I sensed my abdomen tightening, and my body responded with involuntary tremors, an effort to expel more oxygen or whatever substance lingered in my exhale.

But knowing my heart, the heart that my parents paid millions for—a "heart of an ox"—the possibilities were equal to Vincent's chances of getting into space; which, seeing as he was talking on the phone a few feet away from me, was less than zero—if even that.

I gave up and took a breath, my body felt thanksgiving, yet my mind did not relent.

I looked over at Vincent when he said my name. He continued talking for a bit until he ended the call. "What was that all about?" I interrogated, wheeling myself to him.

"Well, Eugene..." Vincent said slowly, his hand making its way behind his head, cradling it for some kind of comfort. "Irene sort of invited us to her house."

"You mean she invited you," I said. "You know I was joking when I said 'I think she likes us,' right? Why did you have to drag me along?"

"That's not true," he said, but I could tell he was only saying that for my feelings.

"Fine, believe what you want. It's not like I can control you." I looked up at the ceiling, my neck being crushed by my head. "I don't care anymore."

"If you are so bored then why don't we get out of the house? Go breathe some fresh air and—"

"Go visit your sweetheart's house?" I said, snapping my head straight and raising a honey dawn eyebrow.

"It will be good for you," Vincent lightly disputed.

"Yeah, right."

"Well, I'm going to her house." It sounded like he was a kid talking about going to a sleepover at his friend's house.

"I thought you weren't going to leave me alone," I countered.

"I guess that means you are going to have to go with me," he quipped.

His argument was loose and made no sense—I was the one in power here, not him—but I didn't want to be alone no matter how much I fibbed about it. Books always left me stuck in my head and 'visitors' only give you fake pleasure.

"Fine, I will go with you." I wheeled myself towards the basement door. "But only because ___." Vincent followed after me, a smile on his face.

I opened the door, and Vincent held it for me as I exited. I began wheeling myself up the ramp that led to the car park. It was a slow ascent as I was fighting against gravity until I felt the weight of my burden being lifted off me. I looked over my shoulder and saw Vincent's hands wrapped around my wheelchair's handle grips.

Not a word was spoken as I turned my head back to its natural position. Vincent paraded me up the ramp, the wheels soundless upon the smooth cement. We were lucky because no one was outside even though it was the weekend. I didn't know if today was Saturday or Sunday, but at that moment, I didn't really care. It felt nice not to worry about something because someone else was helping you.

Vincent wheeled me to our car, a black Studebaker Avanti. It was a nice car with a fibreglass body and a rakish frame, a sporting coupe of revolutionary design. Its coke-bottle waist formed the base for a thin-section roof with a huge rear window and a built-in roll bar. Razor-edged front fenders swept back into the curved rear, then into a curved-up tail. It did not have a conventional grille, but instead had an air scoop under a thin front bumper, and an asymmetrical hump in the hood. Inside, ample crash padding was combined with four slim-section vinyl bucket seats and an aircraft-style control panel. It was a car fit for Jerome Morrow.

Vincent reached for the door's handle after he unplugged the electric car from its charger, but I stopped him by covering his hand with my own. "I can do it by myself." Vincent looked at me for a second before he looked back at the car and then slid his hand from under mine. He placed his hands up as if to say, 'Okay'. It was nice to let people help me but I shouldn't need that much help.

Vincent walked around and entered the left side with ease, pulling the door open, sliding his body in, and closing the door after him. My seating procedure would be more troublesome.

I pulled the black handle out, popping the door ajar, and then I pushed the rest of the door outwards so it was fully extended. I wheeled myself the meter that separated me from the vehicle so my wheelchair was almost, if not, touching the side of the door—this would do nothing to chip the fibreglass finish. I scooted to the tip of my chair like a professional instrumentalist getting ready to perform.

Without saying a word I felt a hand grasp mine. I looked up from my wheelchair to find Vincent holding my hand. "You looked like you needed some help," he said like that was enough explanation.

I scoffed, unable to let my walls collapse. "Yeah right, I don't need your help." Yet I used his hand as a pillar as I used my free hand to push my body off the wheelchair and quickly hopped my upper body on the chair in the same sitting position. My loose legs hung awkwardly on the sides before I pulled them and dropped them into the space.

Letting go of Vincnet's hand, I brushed off my pant legs. Quickly, I took off the wheel locks on my wheelchair, spinning around to find it. I picked up the invention and popped off the large wheel with ease. The wheel flew with my arm as I gently tossed in the row behind us; I did the same thing with the other wheel. Finally, I placed the rest of the wheelchair on my lap. I took out a handkerchief to pat my forehead dry and once again brushed my pant legs with my hands, being only slightly limited by the framework of the wheelchair.

"Let's get this over with."