"Don't," he says, thin and strangled — no, not strangled, really. Smothered. The word hardly left his throat at all, and if John hadn't been so close, just about on top of him in an enclosed space, he might never have heard.

(For the Tumblr prompt "things you said while you were driving".)

Billy and Eddie do business in the fall of 1984.

Susan's on the loose, and Falco walks right back into an old cage.

Connie makes her bones, almost.

Sui Zhou is the first of them to wake, as he so often is.

Near misses in the Greek tutorial.

When he is Lord of the Dreadfort he'll have ruby rings on his fingers.

Back then, all the boys his age had hero-worshipped costumed vigilantes. Jack supposes they still do.

It's two years before Ginsberg goes back to Manhattan. Somehow he didn't picture it happening like this.

There in that white-gilt bedroom like a tomb, where I believe none of Gatsby's guests had ever before set foot except by mistake — none until Daisy, and I was only her adjunct and proxy, an accessory to her presence there in the house. He had forgotten about me then. He had forgotten about me now. I was his only witness.