Superposition

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I should have known better than to let him in. Brian Vanderhall showed up on my doorstep in the falling snow wearing flip-flops, track shorts, and an old MIT T-shirt, the breath steaming from his mouth in little white gusts. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if I had slammed the door in his face, never mind the cold. Instead, like a fool, I stepped aside.

I had been in the basement working the heavy bag when the doorbell rang. A vee of sweat darkened my gray, sleeveless shirt, and my arms were slick with sweat.

“Jacob Kelley,” he said. “Looking like a Neanderthal, as always.”

“And you’re as charming as ever,” I said. “Where’s your coat?”

He gave me a weak smile. “Close the door.”

I peered out and saw nothing but snow and darkness. “Everything okay?”

“Just close it, will you?”

Brian Vanderhall had been a friend since college, probably my best friend through graduate school and all the drama surrounding our careers at the New Jersey Super Collider. He hadn’t always been the most loyal of friends, and there were reasons I’d let him slide out of my life. Finding him unexpectedly at the door like that, I thought he would try to pull me into some kind of messy personal or financial problem, but I wasn’t expecting disaster. I guess we never do.

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