Jess turned off the water in the small white porcelain shower. He pulled back the mottled plastic curtain and applied shaving cream to his legs.

“The trick is to shave in the same direction your hair grows,” he said, drawing the razor through the foam and over his thigh.

I sat on an ancient wicker bath stool, undoubtedly left behind by a former tenant.

“You don’t even race anymore,” I said, referring to his 10-speed years. “Why do you still shave your legs?”

“I like the way it shows off my calves.”

“Jesus. Were you always this much of a girl?” I asked. Bright pink scars crisscrossed his bald scalp and stopped at his left eyelid. A 5-inch chunk of tissue near his right kidney had been gouged out, as if with a garden trowel, and the skin around the tarp-like bandages was puffy and uneven.

“If I was, then you were a lesbian,” he said. “Several dozen times.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said and looked away. Suddenly he seemed more naked than nude.

“In fact, once you were a lesbian on your fold-out couch, with some vanilla ice cream and a rope,” he said grinning.

“Was that you? I thought it was your dad. Fucking Kahlua.”

“Maybe it was my dad. With your mom.” He laughed and applied more shaving cream to his left ankle. “Dude! That’s not right,” I said. “I’ll be haunted by that imagery for the rest of my life.”

“‘Dude’? You’re ‘duding’ me? What are we? Eleven?”

“Times three,” I said. “You know, I came by to see how you were feeling, and I get harassed with tales of interfamily sex.”

“You started it.”

“I ‘started it’? Now who’s 11?”

“If really you want to make me feel better…” His voice trailed off, and he gestured toward the stall behind him.

“For God’s sake, rinse off, and let’s go get dinner.” I grabbed a towel from the rack near my head and threw it at him.

“Suit yourself.” He paused. “Remember that time my brother fucked your aunt?”

I stood, took off my shirt and kissed him. If only to shut him up.

—

I answered the phone at my desk. “Parker and Associates,” I said. “This is Mia.” I was a receptionist at an architecture firm during the day and wrote at night, like a broke and angst-y superhero.

“Mia, hey, it’s Ted.”

“Are you okay?” We’d been friends for years. I’d never heard him sound like this.

“Did you read the paper this morning?” he asked.

“I was half an hour late for work. I barely even showered. Why?”

“Jess was attacked by a bear at Yellowstone,” he said, his voice taut and hushed.

“Who?”

“Jess McArthur was attacked by a bear. It said in the Times that he was hiking and came across a bear with her cubs. She got his whole head in her mouth. The paramedics airlifted him to a hospital in Idaho.”

“Fuck,” I said. In B movies and gothic novels, people say, “My blood ran cold.” But my blood really did run cold, and my legs went numb. “Is he going to live?” It was the obvious question, but it seemed impossible that I was asking it.

“They don’t know yet,” Ted answered. “I guess they had to reattach part of his scalp. It says the bear ate a chunk of his back, too.”

A senior partner walked to my desk with a roll of blueprints and a courier slip. He looked at me and waited.

“Ted, I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll call you later.” I hung up and took the blueprints and slip. He put his hands on his hips and frowned.

“I’ve talked to you before about taking personal calls at the front desk,” he said.

“My friend might not live,” I said. I couldn’t say “die.” I didn’t know what to say. I heard my words as if they were a stranger’s and felt my eyes well with tears.

“Okay, then,” he said uncomfortably. He turned and walked back to the conference room. I put his things on my desk and remained still, as if trapped in amber.

I hadn’t seen Jess in six years. I pictured him bloody on the ground. Don’t let him be a vegetable, I prayed to no one in particular.

—

“You’ve got a great name for a mystery writer,” I said. We sat next to each other at the long metal table our creative writing professor preferred to desks.

“But I don’t write mysteries,” he said, unzipping his windbreaker.

“I know, but you should. ‘Jess McArthur.’ It sounds classic and sinister, like you’re the guy who’d kill someone during a skeet shoot to make it look like an accident.” His shaggy blond hair was matted from his bike helmet, and his sky blue eyes had flecks of gray. I had no idea what I was saying.

“And your name sounds like a menu item. ‘Mia Fithi.’ ‘I’ll start with the lentil soup, and then I’ll have the mia fithi.’” I didn’t know whether this was a compliment, but his waffle-knit shirt exposed his forearms, and I laughed all the same.

Professor Grady arrived, leather satchel slung over her duffel coat, and the next 50 minutes were spent dissecting Hills Like White Elephants. When the frat guy at the end of the table raised his hand and said, “I think this story is about abortion,” Grady barely hid her contempt.

Class ended, and Jess turned to me. “Do you think the Hemingway estate sets the department’s curriculum?” he asked. “That’s the third time this year I’ve read that story.”

“Nah, I think it’s Ibsen’s.” I wrapped my burgundy scarf around my neck. “If I have to write another paper on those fucking macaroons, I’m gonna lose it.”

“You swear a lot for a girl.”

“Fuck you,” I said and smiled. “Wanna get coffee?”

—

A truck roared by the widow of his seventh-floor apartment. It was 7 at night, and the street lamps had just come on.

“Could you repeat that, please? I couldn’t hear a fucking word you just said.”

“You heard me fine. You’re just being obstinate. And totally hostile.” He sat in a faded stuffed chair with his arms crossed. His hair had resumed its untamable glory, and his bangs mostly covered the scars.

“I am not. Jess, there’s a caravan of trucks going by your window day and night. I can’t hear myself think in this place. It’s like you live in a gravel factory. In Beirut. With hammer-pounding monkeys and boxes of dynamite.” I got up from his wooden desk, looked around and sat down again. I hated arguing in his apartment. There was nowhere to go.

“I said, ‘What did you expect?’” He didn’t raise his voice because he never did, but his eyes were stern, and his neck muscles clenched. “That you’d play nurse and change me?”

I looked down at my lap. I thought about how much time I’d spent in this room with its pale blue walls and handmade bookshelves and hanging plants. About how I’d woken the neighbors with sex and with crying. About how many conversations we’d had like this one that became knotted like kite string.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. And I didn’t.

—

After I closed the door behind me, I realized I’d left my keys inside. I knocked, and we had to say goodbye again.

—

I stood on the sidewalk in front of the ’50s brick building and stared at the buzzer. I held a stack of racing magazines under one arm and a 1-pound box of chocolate truffles in the other. My chest tightened. I shifted the box to my left hand and pressed the intercom button for Unit 104 with my right.

“Hello?” he said. I don’t know what I’d expected, but he sounded like he did on the phone earlier that week. I breathed a little easier.

“Jess? It’s Mia. Is this still a good time to drop by?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll buzz you in.”

At the electric signal, I precariously opened the glass and metal door. I entered the foyer and climbed the worn marble steps. As I looked up, he stepped out of his apartment and walked to the landing in his bathrobe.

“Hey, you!” he said and smiled. I’d seen photos in the paper and knew there would be scars. What I didn’t anticipate, though, is how much he’d look like himself. Like Jess.

“What? Are you a flasher now?” I asked. He wrapped his arms around me, and I felt lighter. I hugged him back. The magazines cascaded to the floor.

“Still graceful as usual,” he said. “I’d get those, but I’m milking the invalid thing as long as I can. Don’t tell anyone, but I was really juggling steak knives.”

I bent down and retrieved the periodicals. “That’s not funny. If you were in man clothes, I’d pummel you.”

He laughed. “Here, come on in.” He motioned to his open door.

“You’re moving better than I thought you would,” I said as we stepped inside. “I didn’t think you’d be up at all.”

He took the magazines and chocolates from me and set them on his desk. “I’m good for about an hour or two, and then I have to lie down.”

“That’d drive me nuts,” I said.

“I know. I’m going stir crazy.”

“Hey, I gave you that!” I pointed to an Elvis Costello print on the wall.

“Are you sure? I think it was some other Greek chick.”

“So much cleverness in such a tiny room.” I sat on the windowsill. “What can I do to help? Do you need groceries or anything?”

“I need to get the hell out of here. Are you hungry? Let’s get dinner around the corner. If you help me get dressed, I’ll buy. You can even touch my scars. I’ll just hop in the shower.”