Jake is dead every day by 10 am.

Jake wasn’t always like this. In days long past he was very much alive after 10. He was not so pale then, or so thin. He was always flushed with something: excitement, anger, laughter. Jake is rarely excited anymore, and his anger is far from the swollen pink rage of youth. Now when Jake laughs it is a cold, sarcastic bark, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes in irritation.

No, Jake is not like he used to be, but sometimes if you see him at breakfast he will laugh like he used to. He will talk, loud and excited, about things he will temporarily care about. He will jokingly punch your arm or shake your shoulders in frustration. He will argue points of varying interest between mouthfuls of egg and bacon, cereal and pancake. But Jake will finish breakfast with a last swig of milk and a little bruise-blue pill. Shortly after swallowing this pill, however, Jake will begin to die.