There's no graceful exit from this conversation. Camillo solves this by getting madder.

"You're deluding them! Crack a Bible, people! Just because he does cool healing doesn't fucking mean he's one of the good guys!"

There are a lot of people staring their way now.

Cato gets out of his chair,

but Z does too, and he steps between them — casually, as if it’s just where he happens to be going anyway.

“…look, man, I get where you’re coming from, but nobody here had breakfast and we’ve all gotta eat. So I’m gonna clear us out.”

"Fine. Fine."

He doesn't want any of this. He wants another hug. But the only option that feels open is turning on his heel and storming off, alone.

For the rest of the day, Camillo dismantles his life.

His bike, his minifridge, his loveseat goes on Craigslist, for prices that'll sell before the day is out. He makes a trip to the used bookstore, hauling more books than he can really carry, stopping every block to rub his hands where the handles of the grocery bags cut into them. His clothes go in trash bags, mostly, along with his half-filled notebooks and his TI-89 and, painfully, a couple of beloved stuffed animals he'd brought with him to college.

(Then he fishes out the stuffed animals and takes them to the post office. It's worth what it costs to mail them home to his parents.)

He calls the registrar and tells him he's dropping all his classes. They're past the drop deadline -- fine. He'll email his professors, one by one, and tell them not to expect him.

There's a dentist appointment on his calendar, a couple of weeks out. He cancels that, too.

It turns out that what he actually needs can fit in his backpack. A change of clothes and a couple changes of socks and underwear. Toothbrush, deodorant, comb. Laptop and phone and charger, wallet full of Craigslist cash, rosary in its little pouch so it doesn't tangle up with everything else. A pocketknife. A water bottle.

He sets his alarm early.

He waits for them in the coffee shop.

Z is the first one through the door.

He looks at his face — his backpack — his hot chocolate, mostly full.

"Hi," says Camillo, like he's spoiling for a fight.

He meets his eyes.

“…you coming with us?”

Camillo deflates a little.

"Yeah."

The fact that Camillo’s coming along to cause trouble — the fact that he’ll argue with him endlessly, denounce him to crowds, blog about him calling him the Antichrist — doesn’t seem to touch his beaming smile a bit.

"I'm not on your side," Camillo says, because he can't bear the smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah. I know.”

Dorothy walks through the door, pocketing her keys, and looks quickly between them.

“…am I missing something?”

“I’m in the middle seat this time,” he says, cheerfully.

He'd kind of assumed they were taking a Greyhound or something, and he'd just be able to buy a ticket. But of course they have a car. Lots of people have cars.

Well. This works too.

"Hi," he repeats. Maybe this time he'll get his fight.

She looks at him — and Z — and him —

and then she sighs.

“You’ll have to hold your backpack. My trunk is full.”

“He’s coming with us?” says Cato, from behind her, not willing to be quite so understanding.

Kyou, behind them both, laughs.

"I'm like a journalist," he insists. "I'm documenting."

The world needs to know about the Antichrist.