God was nowhere to be seen. Kyle held his breath a little, then let it out when he realized that he was holding it. He couldn’t see any ghosts, demons, or spirits, he just heard some rustling in the distance. He started to feel a little nervous. It was a strange feeling, to be alone. God followed him to the shower, in the toilet stall, sat next to him in bed at night, rubbed against his side in elevators and in empty hallways. Was he really gone?

Kyle heard a panting sound. He heard splashes, like gobs of saliva falling out of an enormous mouth. His candles trembled around him, the flames like frightened mice with no place to run or hide. There was a smell, like the residue from fireworks, sulphur and saltpeter. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what was coming.

Aria honked her horn three times, once for each year that she and Munoz had been waiting there, watching the back of the tan Chevy Metro in front of them. The Metro had a bumper sticker that read, “Honk if you love Bonnie Tyler.” They must think we’re real fans back here, thought Aria.

“But you don’t think that it’s odd at all, us having been here for three years,” said Munoz, from the back seat. Aria had sent him back there a year and a half ago, after he had spent three weeks asking her if she could let him drive for a change. He just didn’t understand: sometimes you’ve got to let a woman have control of her own car.

“I’m sure we’ll get through in the next cycle,” said Aria. Some days she wished the Munoz would just shut up, but luckily today wasn’t one of those days.

“The most depressing thing,” said Franco, “I looked it up online last night, and I can’t even be Ketchup Packet Boy. It’s already taken.”

“By who?”

“Some kid in Minneapolis, a few years older than us. He shoots exploding ketchup packets out of his eyes.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, and his costume looks like a foil ketchup packet, ingredient listings written down his pants, the whole bit. He had pictures of it on his myspace”

“Christ, how typ.”

Dear God, I am in love with Martha Woznicik. Kyle began all of his diary entries that way. Just the first two words, not the rest of it. The only ones who read his diary were him and God. It seemed strange, though, to address his diary entries to himself, so he addressed them to God.

Kyle didn’t really want God to read the diary, but there wasn’t any way to stop him.

The office buildings crowd around us as we skid out into the empty expanse of Market street; as we roll bumping down the stairs into the subway I can feel them staring at us like mourners peering down into a grave. Then Margaret brakes and spins us around to descend the second flight of stairs, and we’re cut off from the view of the outside.