He hasn’t thought of her in years; has, in fact, practically forgotten that she existed at all. Now he remembers that she visited twice a year, like clockwork, in February and in August. Always carrying fifty pounds more than it seemed her small frame could bear, she wore dresses that ballooned out behind her when she walked. She brought grape lollipops for Brian and Claire, and when it was revealed that Joanie confiscated the treats as soon as Izzy’s back was turned, she started giving them to the kids on the sly, granting her instant divinity in Brian’s eyes.

She had a raucous laugh and she told stories, tales of what she’d done and tales of what would come to pass. Jack thought she was a joke; Joanie thought she was morally and spiritually bereft, and that her visits poisoned the minds of the children.

Brian remembers perching on the stairs long after his bedtime, six years old, and knowing only that Aunt Izzy wouldn’t be coming to visit anymore.

Now he squeezes the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes against the flickering computer screen, and wonders if his aunt really could see the future, and if she could, if it felt like what he was feeling -- a fiery churning in his gut, a spike of ice in his brain, a cold sweat on the nape of his neck, a knowledge that the freight train was zooming faster and faster, destined for a crash, and that he was powerless to stop it.

He hears the old elevator lumber from the first floor, hears the rattle of its door being raised, hears the key in the lock, but is only able to rouse himself and turn his attention back to the computer when the loft door begins to slide open.

He senses Justin hovering in the open doorway, and can’t look up. Won’t look up.

“Still up?” Justin finally asks.

“Yeah, I‘m doing my homework,” Brian replies, fingers tapping on random keys, meaningless words dancing across his screen. He tells himself that he’s not going to say anymore, that Justin can take care of himself, that worrying is the milieu of henpecked husbands and lesbians, but his mouth works independently of his brain and he continues. “It’s late.”

“I had to talk to the boss,” Justin says.

Brian makes some non-committal noise, and Justin seems to take this as a sign that Brian isn’t mad about curfew, or about him shaking his ass in angel wings for all and sundry. He ventures further into the loft, and says, “He said starting tomorrow I can dance on the bar.”

The churning in Brian’s stomach steps up a notch, but he keeps his voice light and his eyes on the computer screen. “After only one night?” he asks.

“Told you I could take care of myself,” Justin says as he leans in for a kiss.

His lips are cold.

It’s only when Justin is heading toward the stairs that Brian is finally able to look away from the gibberish on his computer screen. “Yeah,” he says softly to Justin’s retreating back, “I guess you can.”

Brian turns back to his computer and closes his eyes. He wonders if Aunt Izzy felt helpless and weak, unable to turn back the hands of time, unable to prevent what has already happened and unable to prevent the crash that will follow.