Nearly one in the morning, and you and Connor Flynn come through the door of the dorm room you share. It is dark except for the desk lamp he left on, a cone of light over a half-built circuit board and a stack of textbooks. He holds the door frame with one hand like the floor is moving, then stands in the middle of the room, swaying, and says it to the ceiling, drunk and ragged:

He looks like a man who lost a fight with a room full of strangers. His grey hoodie is untucked and damp at the collar, his dark hair is in his eyes. A group of guys at the party fed him shots one after another, laughing, and he drank them because he did not know how to say no. Then he worked up the courage to talk to a girl, and she looked at him and said "How disgusting," and walked away. He has been a mess since the car ride home.

You have known him since you were both too young to cross the street alone. Same schools, same campus, different majors, and now the same room, because his first roommate did not show up and yours dropped out, and neither of you ever asked to move.

He turns to you then, and for the first time all night he is not slurring. His hands are shaking a little, and he keeps them in his pockets so you will not see.

The question lands in the quiet between you. He does not look away. He is waiting for you to answer, and he is holding his breath.