Josh had drunk most of the Stella. I think there was one half empty bottle on the floor.

All we did since Josh dropped out and started at Forbes Randall was get drunk and watch football like real guys.

It was still light outside, in the canyon down to the street. But Josh had pinned a green sheet up to the window, so we were in murky darkness. The lounge had the sweaty atmosphere of a teenage boy's bedroom after he'd been in there 'reading'.

Josh's head hung forward heavy on his neck, like a venus fly trap too heavy for its stem. He kicked his foot out, as if he couldn't move it except with a sudden fling. He knocked over his half bottle of beer onto my book.

The latest Tom Barette -- twenty nine dollars and ninety five cents.

'Waah?' Josh's head almost fell off his neck He picked up the Barette. Beer dripped down the spine. 'Dude, I am so sorry.'

'Don't lose my place.'

'I won't.' But he let one page flick over. 'Dude, I'm gonna dry this.'

'Don't ...'

He was already thudding towards the kitchen.

The football blared. It was so loud I felt a rawness in my ear, as if the Eustachian canal had been peeled back.

Hours later, Josh emerged holding a tea towel in one hand. He stood in the unornamented doorway and turned my book over, squinting at the blurb.

'Im - ag - ine Don De - Lillo and Mark - Leyner on - a - road trip - together - across - New Jersey.' He turned to the front cover. 'Win-ner of the - Pul - it - zer - Prize - two - thousand - and three.'

'Shut up ...'

He opened the book, rebalanced, and read at random, 'free - dom is an inher - something - funny concept. What is this crap?'

'Don't worry. Just give me the book.'

He fell beside me like a house of cards collapsing. The book landed in my lap. He frowned at the television.

'Ethan, dude! The game's over. You should have called me. Oh, dude.'

He pulled another bottle out.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I lost track.'

The book was still sodden. Apparently Josh had just patted it with the tea towel very slowly. .

'I'm gonna dry this properly,' I said.

The narrowness of the hallway helped me stay on course. I put my book down on the bench and opened the sink cupboard. A colander, an aluminum soup pot -- I shoved them aside.

'What are you doing?' Josh shouted.

I went further back. There was a toasted sandwich maker against the wall. It was an old model, with some rust around the metal lips, covered in white enamel paint.

I pulled it out, put it on the benchtop, and plugged it in.

It took a minute to heat up. I opened my book to the middle. When the toaster was ready, I flattened the book down onto the lower grill, then pulled the lid shut. The book was too thick to pull down the steel latch that held the toaster closed, so I wrapped my hand around the two handles.

'Dude, what are you doing?' Josh watched me from the doorway.

'Drying it.'

'Oh.'

I tightened the handles. There was a sizzling sound. I shut my eyes.

'Dude, look out!'

I opened my eyes. The book had caught fire. Flames inched above the white enamel.

'Damn!' I pulled the toaster plug out of the wall and put the toaster and book into the sink. I turned the tap on. The flames went out.

'Good riddance, I say.' Josh snorted.

Pieces of paper from the corner of the book, blackened with ash and soaked with water, had started to fall off. They fell into the sink, drifting around on the shiny gray aluminum, some still bearing lines of type, and whirled into the plughole.