"Where is it?" Blair flew into the loft, slammed the door closed and ran for his room, backpack banging his hip.

Jim Ellison reread the Jag's score from last night's game. The paper was calling it a tragic loss. Jim didn't agree. He was thinking massacre. He sipped his morning coffee and helped himself to another hot biscuit from the plate on the kitchen table as sounds of a frantic search came from his roommate's bedroom. "Thought you were gone," he called out.

"Can't find my paper. The one about the Kaht Kuuss Drum. It's due today and I'm totally hosed if I don't turn it in!" Blair shot out of his room and started tossing sofa cushions on the floor.

Jim sighed. If the kid just put things in the same place...

"Damn it, Jim! I know it was here last night. Now it's not!" He stood in the middle of the trashed living room, fists on jean-covered hips, flannel coat unbuttoned and still damp from the icy rain falling outside.

Jim tilted his head, casting out his senses. Yeah, the Corvair was running. "So you went down, started the car and left it running on the street while you came back up here to search? You inviting the criminals to steal your ride now, Junior?"

Scowling as he riffled the magazines on the coffee table, Blair flapped a casual hand in Jim's direction. "No biggee. It's locked. I have to let it set and run for ten minutes when it's this cold. Crap, where is that paper?" He clutched a handful of locks, eyes desperately raking over the loft. "I'll never get ol' man Pearsall to give me an extension."

"Can't you print it off again?" Jim asked as he set the newspaper down and buttered his breakfast. He glanced at his watch. He'd need to get ready for work himself in ten minutes.

"No time," Blair moaned. "I was supposed to drop if off before my first class and it's on my hard drive in my office." Blair growled and stomped back into his room. "It's got to be in there somewhere!"

Jim's next statement was lost in the sound of squealing brakes, skidding rubber and ripping metal. He shoved back from the table and ran into Blair's room, pushing the younger man aside to peer out the same window.

"MY CAR!" Blair bellowed.

The street was a mess. A city dump truck, loaded with crushed rock, straddled the sidewalk. Jim zoomed in on the driver. The guy looked stunned, but seemed to be moving okay as he unbuckled his seatbelt and wrenched opened the door. Blair's small car, however, did not fare as well. Trapped between the steaming hood of the heavy truck and the brick wall of the parking garage, it looked like a wafer.

They ran down the stairs and out into the street. A crowd had gathered. Jim heard several neighbors saying they had called nine-one-one. The truck driver leaned against a cement planter, dabbing a small cut on his cheek with a tissue.

Arms held out, fingers splayed, Blair ran to his beloved car. "Nonononono, my CAR!"

Jim gently inserted himself into the circle of Good Samaritans around the driver. "You okay, Sir?"

"Brakes just... failed," the man stammered. "I had to find a way to stop or I was going to blow across that intersection."

No smell of alcohol. Eyes were clear and drug free. Jim nodded. "I understand."

The guy looked over at Blair, pain stricken. "I'm really sorry."

Jim shook his head. "Accidents happen."

Later that day, when Jim had returned home from work, after picking Blair up at the University, he moved about the loft to tidy up. A pile of folded newspapers sitting on the end of the counter needed to go into the recycle bin. He caught sight of a thin stack of papers hiding underneath, neatly paper clipped in the upper left corner, with Blair's familiar scrawled initials under the title at the top.

The missing paper.

He'd accidentally covered Blair's work with the recycled papers.

If he hadn't... If Blair had been sitting ... Waiting for the engine to warm... If... If...

He carefully picked up the paper, seeing the curves and strokes of Blair's pen as if for the first time. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He could hear the droplets of water hitting the shower tiles beyond the closed bathroom door, Blair humming a brainless tune as he washed his hair.

Jim's hands shook.

A fluke.

The loss would have been immeasurable.

A massacre of Jim's life.

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