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“I take it you don’t believe in streaming,” he muses, squinting a bit to make out the titles on the bottom row.

I have no feelings about movies or whatever format they’re in, but I’ve already decided on the persona that Daniel is getting: the deadpan cool girl. Having a serial killer for a father did not fuck her up in any way beyond the ways that make her interesting, and the autism and penchant for violence are only minor character flaws. She’s cool enough that she’ll go for a drink, and while she has opinions about a boy’s topic of choice, she’ll always agree with him and doesn’t know too much. Knowing too much is off-putting.

“Streaming is bullshit,” I say. “You never even own a digital copy, just the license to use it—”

“And that can be revoked at any time,” Daniel finishes. “It’s those greedy media companies. People aren’t allowed to have anything anymore.”

I smile even though he interrupted me. “Exactly.”

He’s already taken a movie off the shelf, turned over the plastic case to inspect it, and put it back. Dad had a fondness for dramas and thrillers. Fight Club and The Godfather, that sort of thing.

“Take it you’re a movie buff, too, then,” he says. “If you grew up like this.”

“I like to pretend I am,” I lie. “But honestly, it’s overwhelming. Can’t decide where to start.” I stand beside him, gazing up at the giant wall of plastic cases and cardboard VHS sleeves. Daniel studies me from the corner of his eye; he’s a full head taller than me and smells like too much expensive cologne. “You know what, you tell me. Where should I start?”

He asks, “You got a copy of A Serbian Film in here?”

My nose wrinkles. Dad thought those kinds of horror films were distasteful. I do, too.

“No,” I say. “Stick to the wall.”

He laughs. “Messing with you.”

He skims the selection—organized alphabetically this month; I have a tendency to rip it all down and redo it a different way if a weekend is particularly bad—and plucks out a copy of Dog Day Afternoon.

This one I know. Some guy robs a bank to pay for his wife’s gender-affirming surgery. Based on a true story, too. Alyssa would never admit this, but this used to be her favorite movie. We watched it every time she stayed over sophomore year. It made her cry. She wanted someone to love her so much they’d rob a bank for her, she said. (I wanted her to stop crying, so I told her the main character was a terrible person in real life. I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but it did the trick, so it didn’t need to be.)

“This is one of the best heist films of all time,” Daniel says. “Natural light, straightforward angles, swear to god it’s live footage of a robbery.” He grins, waggling the case at me. “Wrote a whole essay on its use of color last year. Let me know when you watch it and I’ll send it to you.”

I will not be doing that. “Only if you got a decent grade on it.” That gets him to laugh. “Anyway, I’m already buzzed. You want a drink, too?”

“You’re already—”Daniel starts, but I’m headed for the good liquor cabinet under the massive TV, plucking a set of linked paper clips from the side table as I pass. I put one in my mouth as I set about unbending the other.

I keep paper clips scattered around the house, easily bent into a lockpick and torsion wrench, in case of emergencies.

Like I said: I don’t like locked doors.

“The mechanism is shit,” I offer as the cabinet gives in to my prodding almost immediately. Daniel hums in genuine approval. “What do you drink?”

“Bourbon,” Daniel says. Should’ve guessed. I grab the bottle and a glass. “Aren’t you a little young for this?”

I pour his drink and place it in his hand. “If you had my parents, you’d drink, too.”

“Fair.”

I can imagine Dr. Lý narrowing her eyes at me. She’d have a lot to say about this situation. Something like, Aren’t you doing to him what your mother did to you? Or, You’re fully aware this isn’t healthy. I know it, and so do you. And I’d tell her that, actually, I’m not nearly as bad as my mother about it, so it’s fine.

“You’re getting your degree in cinematography?” I ask while he takes a sip, as if I actually care.

“I wish,” he snorts. “Nothing that fancy. Just film and media arts, basic stuff—beginner shit.” There’s a tic of frustration in his jaw. “You know, I took a semester off to work on Mother of a Monster last year, and my advisor had the gall to be pissed about it. Said I wasn’t taking my education seriously enough.”

Probably because Mother of a Monster, from what I’ve heard, sucks.

“Fuck that,” I say.

“Right? I figure I’ll get the degree to get my dad off my back, and then go back to work my way. Don’t need a fancy piece of paper if you’re good at what you do.”

Resentment poisons his point. He looks at his glass, swirls the remaining bourbon around, sucks on his teeth. I wait for him to fill the silence.