Page 13 of On the Edge

His voice trails off as though he’s no longer speaking directly into the phone, but letting it hang down by his side. The music stops suddenly, and his voice becomes clear again. He’s repeatingplease comeover and over again. The back of my neck tingles with unease and I stop walking once more. I don’t feel right about this.

“Where are you?”

“Number three Melbourne Place,” he says in a singsong, before laughing.

“Atlas, I need you to try and focus, yes?” Turning back around, I peer across the dark campus. Max’s car is gone. “I do not want to come to a party. I am just getting home from the game, it is late?—”

“I need your help,” he whispers, sounding more lucid than he has the entire conversation. Immediately, I pull the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker. When I type the address he gave me into the map app, nothing comes up.

“I need the address, Atlas.”

“Number threeeee?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “That is not correct. Please, just…” I pause, thinking hard. I have no idea what to do, and I wish, more than anything, I’d agreed to letting Max give me a ride. “Share your location, yes? Do you know how to do this?”

He laughs and I barely refrain from cursing in frustration. Changing direction, I walk away from the dorm and toward the lot where I park my car. Tossing my bag into the back, I sit in the driver’s seat and desperately try to come up with a solution. At a loss, I try typing different variations of the address he gave me into the map, but none of them work. On the other end of the line, Atlas is singing nonsensically.

“Atlas,” I call, trying to get his attention. I keep my voice as even as I can, not wanting to betray my nerves or frustration. “Atlas, please share your location with me, yes?”

“Yes!” he shouts, before devolving into laughter again. Music flares back to life and I hastily lower the volume on my phone.

Tipping my head back against the headrest, I close my eyes and try to come up with another idea. I can’t very welldrive around campus all night, looking for parties. In fact, I don’t even know that Atlas is at a party—he could be anywhere. I’m just coming to the conclusion that maybe I need to call in reinforcements, when my phone buzzes with a text message. I look down and breathe out heavily, dizzy with relief.

“I am on my way, Atlas,” I say into the speakerphone, even though I’m pretty sure he is no longer holding it. I can’t hear anything other than the indistinct noises one might hear if they were pocket-dialed. Pulling up the location he just shared, I note that it’s off campus and an area of town I’ve never been to before.

The moment I pull into the driveway, I realize there is probably a good reason for that. The house in which Atlas’ location has remained stationary looks dilapidated. The front porch is sagging—boards rotting and railing broken. The yard is littered with garbage, overgrown with weeds, and the driveway sports several large cracks that I have to slowly ease my car over. There are lights on inside, but I can’t hear any music. Stepping out of the car and adjusting the dress shirt I’m still wearing from the game, I approach the front door and knock briskly.

It takes several minutes of sustained knocking before the door is thrown open by a man who looks far too old to be a college student. Smothering my surprise, I smile politely.

“Good evening. I am here for—to pick up Atlas.”

Christ, but I am tired.If the man notices the way I stumbled over the sentence, he doesn’t comment on it. His eyes rake over me, top to bottom, and a sneer pulls up one side of his mouth.

“You here to sell fucking Bibles?”

“No, sir, I am here for Atlas,” I repeat.

“You look like a Bible thumper,” he says, lifting a bottle to his lips and taking a swig. He’s wearing a white tank top that looks like it hasn’t been washed in this century, and the view I have of the room shows a house in a similar state.

“May you ask Atlas to come to the door?”

“May you ask Atlas to come to the door,” he mimics. “Fuck off.”

He steps back and goes to swing the door closed. I put my foot between the door and the frame, planting a hand on the wood and shoving it back open. The man stumbles back, liquid sloshing out of the mouth of the bottle he’s holding. He rights himself immediately, eyes flashing in anger. I step inside, leaving the door hanging wide open, and make use of every inch of my 6’2” frame—straightening my spine and drawing my shoulders back.

“I do not want to cause any trouble. I would like to pick up my friend,” I repeat. I don’t want this to get out of hand, but I also don’t want to leave without Atlas.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spits, taking a threatening step toward me. He realizes—the closer he gets—that I’m a good deal taller and wider than him. He might also be cognizant enough to realize that I’m perfectly sober. He narrows his eyes, waves his bottle at the room, and changes track. “Whatever, man.”

“Thank you.” Stepping past him, and being careful not to touch anything, I quickly peer around the room. It’s filthy: carpet and wallpaper yellow with age, drink receptacles discarded around the room, and a white powder scattered across the coffee table. My skin itches, being in this house. I will need another shower before bed, just to scrub away the decay I imagine is already clinging to my body.

“Atlas?” I raise my voice, but none of the people loungingon the couch so much as raise their heads. It doesn’t matter anyway, none of them have hair dark enough to be him.

I tread down the hallway carefully, well aware that this is the sort of place one might step on a used needle. A slight headache is building behind my ears, and my head feels fuzzy with fatigue and nerves. I stick my head into a bedroom and almost gag at the smell of vomit that greets me. Breathing through my mouth, I step far enough in to gaze around at the occupants. A young woman raises her head off the bed where she is tangled up with another woman.

“I am sorry to disturb you, miss,” I say softly. “Have you seen Atlas?”

“What?” She sits up a little straighter and the sheet falls down to her waist. She’s naked. Politely, I maintain firm eye contact with her even though she makes no move to cover herself back up. Beside her, the other woman hasn’t moved an inch.

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