I turn the kettle on and take a stack of paper cups from the cabinet. The glass Joshua has been drinking from last night still stands on the counter. I pick it up and look at the barely visible imprint left by his lips. The thought of drinking from it makes me uneasy. It's almost like thinking about my lips touching his.

The toilet flushes behind the wall, startling me. I hear him turn the water on. The kettle begins to whistle. I open the lid of the trash bin and drop the glass into it.

I move two other glasses to the upper shelf where Joshua, being a head shorter than me, probably won't find them. Then, I take two paper cups and make the coffee. To the backdrop of water still running in the bathroom, I come over to the small window and crack it open.

It's been going fine so far. He's been listening. He didn't get up and leave as I feared he would. In a way that fire might have been a godsend. It allowed me to not only rescue his body but also try to reach his soul.

The tap is turned off behind the wall and the door clicks open. Joshua steps into the short corridor and walks into the kitchen. I nod at his cup on the counter.

"Thanks." He reaches for a plastic teaspoon and the box with sugar. "I just have this headache, you know, the annoying one that sometimes coffee can help with, you know?"

"You've inhaled too much smoke last night. Come breathe some air."

He nods and comes over and stops next to me, looking outside, listening to the noise of cars passing by and the wind in the trees along the street. Despite the slight whiff of exhaust fumes, the air outside is much fresher than the stale atmosphere of my apartment.

"Nice," he says, taking a sip. "You're nice, too—when you're not talking."

"I didn't start that conversation." I sip my coffee. It's strong and disgusting, just the way I like it. I'm a bit surprised Joshua doesn't complain about the taste.

"You seemed suspiciously prepared for it." He gives me a side glance. "Do you do that often? Tell people how they should live their lives, I mean?"

"I should do it more often, but no, I only tried it with you."

"What made me so lucky?"

"As you said, last night..." The words 'I saved your life' stop on the tip of my tongue, a bit too melodramatic to say out loud, even though they're true. "I mean, I played a part in your getting a second chance with your life, so I feel a bit responsible for what you do with it."

"I didn't know that rescue came with strings attached." He removes the plastic teaspoon from his cup, walks over to the trash bin and steps on the pedal. The lid opens and he throws the teaspoon inside, and then he pauses, looking down. It takes me a moment to realize what he's seeing, but then I understand.

"What happened to this?" He bends down and retrieves the glass I have thrown away. He turns it around, eyeing its incriminating unbrokenness, then looks at me. Despite the coffee, my throat suddenly feels dry as his confused expression gradually changes into understanding.

"Did you throw it away just because I drank from it?"

"No," I say, a bit too quickly. "I must have dropped it... by mistake..."

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Ethan?" His cup of coffee hits the counter, splashing the brown liquid around. "Like, seriously? I mean, I was thinking you might be joking or something, but...you're, like, seriously disgusted by me? Why did you bring me here then?"

"No," I say again, unconvincingly. "I'm not."

"To hell with this." He drops the glass back into the garbage bin, and this time I hear it smash into pieces.

"I thought you were nice to let me stay here, but you just wanted to lecture me on how my life is wrong." He glares at me, his fingers curling into fists. "Now, you're just being mean! Thank you for what you did last night, but I'm leaving."

He turns around and heads out of the kitchen. I put my cup on the table and follow, only to find him by the door, putting on his shoes in hurried, jerky movements.

"Joshua, wait. You have nowhere to go."

"I'll go to Victor," he snaps without looking at me. "I'll go to Michael. I'd sleep under a fucking bridge."

I watch him, feeling miserable and helpless. How did I screw up like this? He was talking to me. He was listening. Now he's just mad, and he'll leave, and I'll never have another chance.

"I'm not disgusted by you," I say, desperately. "I don't really know how to talk to you, that's all. You're very different from anyone I ever knew. So maybe I don't make much sense to you, but I do want to help."

He pauses tying his shoelaces, and looks up at me, frowning.

"You threw a glass away because I drank from it," he says, spitting out every word.

"I just..." I hesitate. "You don't have AIDS, do you?"

He stares at me. "What? No. Why would you..." Suddenly he chuckles and sits down on the floor, letting go of his shoelaces. "You thought that I?... Is that why you?... Oh my. You can't get AIDS from drinking from someone's glass. It's common knowledge, you idiot."

I chuckle, too, relieved at his change of attitude. "I guess I am."

He shakes his head. "Oh boy. Can't wait to tell my guys about this."

"Don't go," I say, and he grows abruptly serious. "You can stay here for a few days, until you find yourself another place. Until you feel better."

"I really don't see how that could work if you intend to throw away everything I touch."

"I promise I won't do that. I might seem weird sometimes, but, you know, I mean well."

"Yeah." He looks at me curiously from the floor. "That's a part of your charm, I guess. Will you give me those lectures again, about my wrong ways of living?"

I shake my head. "Only if you want to talk about that."

"That's unlikely." He shakes his head. "Oh, boy. Why did I have to be rescued by the weirdest firefighter out there?"