"I want you," he said, mimicking the old Uncle Sam posters, with its ominous finger wagging and booming patriotism. Pushing away from the counter and making his way into the living room, he began ticking off symptoms, as if they were part of the recruitment spiel. "For a lifetime of anxiety, paranoia, mood fluctuations, violently reactive behaviors, and a healthy dose," he said, plopping down onto the couch, in a comfortable sprawl, "of denial."

His head lolling in Max's direction, his face was blank but unguarded, one of those intense gazes that people talked about, when they whispered about Brian Kinney, whether in the back room or the conference room. Still, it was brief, and with a roll of his eyes, he turned his focus to Gus, who was bouncing around in his playpen.

"I'll be sure to send him a fucking post card."