Moving now, Robby watches Paul, to see what he'll do in this uninvited space, more of a peculiarity than being stuck in a memory, a moment. No one comes here except the men that his mom brings home, no one but the two that he labelled as friends, but more of co-workers for the same gain. Friends have been a given up concept with Robby's interest in school, friendly acquaintance about where the people he sometimes sees and like at the skate park.

He thinks he hates the fact that Paul can see everything about the way he lives as much as a piece of his life played out, like they're both similar concepts. And aren't they? The way that he hasn't cleared the place up, the blankets scrunched up on the couch beside him. He can see how cheap that pillow is, its age and his and his mom's worth.

This is why he doesn't like the guests they don't have, looking away from it and Paul's gaze; his body hunched, foot tapping on the ground.

"I didn't survive," he admits -- more because he can't stand the quiet of the room, the annoyance that won't leave his gut. Tinges the edges of it with humour, the irony of Paul's belief. "I got lucky. Good guys don't make rent after they piss off their contacts."

Good guys who gave up their old ways to be better, the person they wanted to be.

He flops back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.