“I really don’t understand what you’re doing. Stop talking to air, or the wall, you seem…” Richie hesitated as he noticed his friend Trey, someone he had known for years, morph before him. His friend’s sharp, masculine jaw line, blonde hair, and shrewd piercing eyes remained unchanged, yet underneath the robust physiology lurked a malleable soul, beaten and battered and hidden away until this very moment—this ever so tenuous moment.

Trey’s face wore an expression of extreme distress and something that treaded near mania. He had looked at Richie just a moment ago, astonished, unable to recognize his friend of 8 years.

“Why this moment,” Richie thought, “why here, just as we’ve been locked away in this damn apartment because a riot broke out.”

Richie looked longingly at the door. He knew that if he left Trey, he would never forgive himself. A friend is supposed to be there during bad times. Besides, outside was surely more dangerous.

So, Richie pleaded with Trey; begged him to snap back to reality; reminded him of their mutual recollections, of how they met. But none fostered any hope. Something in Trey’s brain had shifted.

Trey turned toward Richie and lifted a finger, pointing at him, “you’re behind this, I know it, you tapped my brain, you’re with the CIA aren’t you?” he said with feverish eyes, “well, I can’t stay in the same room as a CIA agent.” Unsheathing a knife from the counter top set, Trey stared at him contemptuously, unblinking, unable to see anything other than blood and retribution.

Richie continued pleading, “please Trey…I…I can convince you it’s true, that we’re friends. Just give me 5 minutes and I’ll show you.”

Trey relinquished the 5 minutes, and Richie frantically scrolled through his photos for proof of their acquaintance.

“See, here, look here, that’s you and that’s me. This photo is from two years ago,” Richie said as his shaking hands held the phone up to Trey’s face.

“How do I know you haven’t been working my case for years. That you’ve faked it! I’ve seen this movie before, the CIA knows that time gives the illusion of knowing someone. But I know that people can put on a fake personality for years! You’re a liar! Scum!”

“No, no, it’s true,” Richie said. He tried to conjure up new ways of reasoning with the firm resolve of this mad man, but all that came to him were the same methods: pictures, proof of his actual job, knowledge of Trey’s life. Unwaveringly, Trey knew it was all a lie, all a part of a ploy to arrest him, to garner information from him. The government was after him, of that much he was sure.

The timer on Trey’s phone ticked down to 10 seconds, “as of now you have no proof,” he said lasciviously, “so…in, 5…4…”

“No, no,”

“3…”

“No, Trey no,” Richie noticed the ravenous look in Trey’s eyes and knew there was no convincing him out of it, so he grabbed the nearest blunt object—a metal lamp from the desk—and prepared to fight.

“2…”

Roars from the raging riot outside grew, matching the fever of the room’s frantic air. Richie reached for the door knob, but it had been locked.

“1…”

Richie turned toward Trey who was calmly standing, looking down at his phone.

“I’m sorry Richie, I wish I believed you.”