Oli looks at the next picture and can’t work out what he’s seeing. “What’s the yellow?” he asks.

Lark reaches for the photo, a blank look on his face. “It’s just a developing error,” he says. “That one is mostly developing error. The swirls on the bottom, too.”

“Oh,” Oli says. “I don’t really know how Polaroids work.”

“Something happens with the chemicals? I don’t know either,” Larks says.

“The corners just didn’t come out. I must have been pinching the bottom, maybe, while it was still developing.” If he thinks about it, he can call up the tactile memory, the give of the film between his thumb and pointer, gripping it tight in the back seat of Jules’ car while it was developing.

Oli doesn’t understand why Lark has clung onto this photo. It’s dated from the same night as the gig, so it wasn’t just standing in for their arrival in Portland. There’s someone in the photo, but Oli’s can’t see anything about them besides the dim outline of their legs.

“I know it’s ugly,” Lark says. “I took it when I was leaving. Jules–the producer–and their husband were taking me to the hospital, I was so dehydrated. Max was there, but he was just watching.” That night Max and Dana didn’t follow Lark, and he wasn’t overly surprised.

“You were scared?” Oli asks.

Lark nods. “I mean, I was mostly just nauseous, to be honest with you. But my heart,” Lark pauses and touches his hand to his chest now like he can still feel it. “I thought I might die. It was beating so hard.”

That night had been awful, Lark knows. He had felt awful. But whatever part of him had stagnated listening to Max–Max’s lyrics, Max’s whining, Max’s expectations, Max singing over the radio on a fifty-hour car journey–had started to break apart. He knew what kind of mistake he was making.

In Lark’s dreams, back then, when he went to conservatory, he would be formed into someone else, somehow. The part of him that practiced so hard for so long would overtake the other part of him that liked ironically ugly sweaters and electronic dance-pop and watching anime and scrolling through strangers’ livejournals until 3 am. The worst parts of him would be strangled, killed off by the good soil of discipline and expectation.

In Portland, what could replace that? Who would he become?

I made it through the show and the pack down, sunk into a blank fog. I’d had just enough calories or electrolytes in me to get through, but there were no higher brain functions available. Max had some banter that I didn’t successfully return or even acknowledge. I stood stock-still behind my synth, my consciousness tucked between my wrists and fingertips. Mostly I was aware of the smooth plastic keys, my sweating palms.

Jules caught up with us in the little green room as we came off stage. They were at my elbow, complimenting my playing. I remembered just saying: Please can I sit down? And then wanting to fall through the floor I felt so rude, thinking about it on repeat later on.

Jules steered me to a couch. I sat there bent over my knees. Someone closed my fingers around a drink.

Where are you staying? Jules asked.

Couch surfing until we can find a place, Max told them. I have a few friends that said we could crash on their floor.

I think we should go to a motel tonight. For Lark. Dana had found us and had her hand on my back. I had the impression that I had blacked out for a minute, missed some of the conversation. He can’t sleep on a floor like this. He needs a bed. And a clean bathroom.

Max mumbled something about me sleeping anywhere, but Jules didn’t laugh. They waved over someone in a narrow, low-profile wheelchair, black-gloved hands. He was shockingly thin, too, but made up, eyes dark with kohl and long hair straightened. There was a tube coming out of his nose that disappeared behind his ear. He introduced himself as Quinn, as Jules’ husband.

He can stay in our guest bedroom. It’s an en suite. He spoke, in conference with Jules. You guys will have to fend for yourselves, though.

When I looked up, Quinn’s face was grim. Jules smiled apologetically but didn’t contradict him. Dana was thanking them while Max spoiled for a fight, insisted on taking my car. My nausea was back.

It’s fine, I told them, standing to go to the bathroom and waving them away. It’s fine.

I was there for a long time. Someone pushed open the bathroom door, but I didn’t move, even when I heard the stall door creak open. I heard my name in a voice I didn’t recognize. Are you awake?

Unfortunately, I whispered, huddled and shivering and still not able to move.

Lark?

Yeah.

Can you look at me for a sec? Quinn asked. I squinted up through the fluorescent burn of the lights and he reprimanded me. Really open, come on.

I did, let Quinn look closely into my eyes, until a retch forced me to turn back to the toilet. Quinn later said that the whites around my pale gray eyes were distinctly yellow. He had noticed it earlier, had worried.

Give me your insurance card. You need help. I’ll find somewhere in your network.

I didn’t want to go to a hospital, and I waved him away. Just let me stay here. I’m okay.

Quinn barked a laugh. Listen, my standards are low, and you are fucking sick. I looked at him, the tube snaking out of his nose, and felt afraid. I remembered that it was his Hydralyte Jules had brought me, his prescription pills. I handed him my wallet. You’ll be fine, Quinn said, Get you some fluids and good as new. Okay?

Quinn made some inquiries on his phone browser, and then made a phone call, spoke politely to a receptionist, knew exactly what to say. He didn’t leave me alone.