Scene 1
I stood on the marble slab that passed for a doorstep at Sam’s mansion, suitcase sweating through my palm, and rang the doorbell with the kind of hope reserved for hostages or Jehovah’s Witnesses. The place was a three-story postmodern cathedral to excess, all gleaming limestone and glass with fake Greek pillars so white they hurt to look at. Even the security camera was glam: a seamless orb bulging from the wall like a silicone implant. I looked up at it and waved, middle finger cocked. The orb winked a little red LED at me.
The door didn’t so much open as dissolve. It was one of those smart-home jobs, and it went from “solid mahogany” to “not there” in a single, silent sigh. Sam stood on the other side, barefoot and statuesque, wearing a silk robe that looked like it had been hand-woven from the stress dreams of Parisian designers. The silk was black, with gold cranes flying across it, and it hung open just enough to make me question if Sam even owned pants.
“Welcome, babe. Come in. You look…” His eyes glimmered, laser-pale, and the corners of his mouth quirked like he was about to say something filthy, but then he smirked and went for the kill. “Like you need saving.”
He grabbed my suitcase with one hand and my shoulder with the other, steering me into the foyer like a crash test dummy he couldn’t wait to see shatter.
Inside, the air was a full ten degrees cooler and it smelled like the aftermath of a department store perfume battle. My sneakers squelched across the floor, which was so polished I saw my own face in it, warped and stretched like a funhouse mirror. Above me, a chandelier hung from the rafters like a threat: all crystal knives and glittering chains.
Sam led me down the hall, his robe fluttering, and all the lights in the house came up one by one as we passed—sconces, strip LEDs, some kind of hand-blown glass fixture shaped like an alien egg. In the living room, a fireplace roared to life the moment we entered, flames dancing in sync with the LED rhythm. The couch was an absurd L-shaped thing the size of a yacht, scattered with faux-fur throws in pale pink and dead-hedgehog gray.
Sam plopped my suitcase onto the couch, then did a gymnast’s dismount onto the seat beside it, legs folded under him like a teenage sleepover queen.
“So,” he said, cocking his head, “you gonna tell me what happened, or are we just going to pretend this is a normal visit?”
I let myself fall into the couch, which tried to swallow me whole. “Normal visits don’t exist between us.”
He laughed, the sound a little too sharp, a little too hungry. “Touché.”
For a second, we just sat there, staring at each other across the gulch of cashmere and unresolved feelings. I knew he wanted me to say something first, so I didn’t. Instead I stared around the room at the constellation of expensive shit he’d accumulated since I was last here: a cactus in a six-foot gold vase, a wall-size print of some influencer’s lips, three identical glass skulls filled with top-shelf tequila. Sam followed my gaze, eyes darting like he wanted me to comment, then settled back on me with an expectant smile.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said finally, voice dry as a sandblaster.
He grinned wider. “I got bored. And rich.”
“You were always rich.”
He made a face. “Yeah, but now it’s fun. Nepotism, but make it art. Also, you never noticed the details.” He pointed at the gold vase. “That cactus is a metaphor.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Spite.”
My laugh came out as a cough. I tried to breathe, but the air in here was thick with chemical bravado and old, invisible arguments.
“You want a drink?” Sam asked. He was already standing, robe fluttering behind him, as he made for the bar cart. “Something that’ll take the edge off your whole…” He waved a hand at me. “Thing.”
“Surprise me.”
He raised an eyebrow but kept moving, the way a cat will when you pretend to ignore it. “I can do that. I can always do that.”
He started pulling bottles—gin, something purple, something neon blue. I watched him pour with the precision of a chemist and the flair of someone who never worried about failing a drug test. He topped the glass with ice and a lemon slice, then handed it to me with a little bow.
“Your welcome drink, good sir.”
I took a sip and immediately regretted giving him creative control. It tasted like the smell of a freshly cleaned urinal cake, but with more sugar.
Sam watched my face, delighted. “That bad?”
“Perfect,” I said, and forced another gulp. “Seriously, thanks. For this. For…letting me in.”
He looked at me, and for a split second, the sharpness dropped away and he was just Sam again, the kid I met in freshman lit, back when everything was about inside jokes and getting high on library steps.
“Don’t be stupid. I always let you in.”
The fire snapped behind him, throwing wild shadows across his face. He looked older than I remembered, but maybe that was just the lighting, or maybe it was the weight of everything we weren’t saying.
“So. You want to talk, or just chill?” he asked, settling back into the couch and opening his robe a little wider, as if daring me to notice.
I set the drink on the glass skull and ran my hands through my hair. “I just want to stop thinking for a while.”
Sam nodded. “Consider it done. House rules: no thinking. Also, if you break anything, you pay for it with your organs.”
I snorted. “Fine print?”
He flashed teeth. “No, I say that to all my guests. Except you. You can break whatever you want. Just tell me before you do it, so I can watch.”
“Pervert,” I said, but it came out softer than I meant.
He shrugged, unashamed.
We sat in the neon hush of his ridiculous living room, the only sounds the fire and the low hum of the fridge in the next room. I finished my drink. He finished two.
At some point, the silence stopped being a joke and just settled on us, heavy and weird, like a weighted blanket full of knives.
Sam turned to me, voice soft. “Seriously, though. You okay?”
I was about to say yes, because that was the reflex, but then I saw my own reflection in the wall of windows and realized I looked like I’d just survived a mugging. Or started one.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I came here.”
He put his hand on my knee, warm and grounding. “Well. You’re here now. And you look fucking fabulous.”
I laughed, finally. “You’re such a liar.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m your liar.”
I leaned back and let the room swallow me, the lights, the fire, the strange comfort of being somewhere I absolutely didn’t belong.
If I was going to be saved, there were worse places to start.
Scene 2
Sam was not the kind of host to let you enjoy a seat. No sooner had my ass fused to the faux-fur couch than he yanked me up and onto the house tour like a demented real estate agent with an audience of one.
He did this thing with his arm, a swoopy, backwards flourish that said “behold,” and we moved from the living room into the main artery of the house. It was less a hallway than a trophy gallery: glass display cases with autographed baseballs, skate decks, limited-edition sneakers lined up like a militia, and a single katana that was probably worth more than my parents’ Honda.
“Make yourself at home,” Sam intoned, plucking a sneaker from its pedestal and tossing it to me like a dog toy. I caught it, nearly dropped it, then realized I’d been handed a Jordan 1 that probably had its own insurance policy. “Everything you see? Yours tonight. Want drinks? Food? A massage chair? You just ask.”
I glanced up at the security orb perched over the end of the hall. Its lens glinted at me, cold and wet.
“I’ll pass on the sneakers. Don’t want to get your display all greasy,” I said, and Sam barked out a laugh.
“Good,” he said. “You’re learning boundaries.”
He kept the tour moving: open-plan kitchen, the kind where even the faucet looked like a designer sex toy. I trailed him past a dining table big enough for a hedge-fund shareholder meeting, to the wall of glass that looked out over the city. It was raining—obviously, because the universe loved drama—and the city lights were all smeared and runny like a watercolor done by a drunk.
Sam pressed his face against the glass, eyes reflecting back at me, pale and feral. “Ever feel like you’re in a snow globe?”
I shivered and didn’t answer. Instead I looked around the kitchen, which had a second, smaller fridge entirely devoted to energy drinks and champagne. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter, the bananas so perfectly yellow they could have been 3D printed. I couldn’t tell if this house was alive or if Sam was slowly turning into the house.
He slid a bottle of cava from the cooler and uncorked it with the kind of skill that comes from ruining a lot of shirts in college. He poured the sparkling into two flutes and handed me one, his eyes not leaving my face.
“To your peace of mind,” he said. I barely had time to raise my glass before he clinked it and drained his in a single go.
It went down cold, a fizz of sour and sugar, and I felt a weird spike of alertness in my veins, like the first ten seconds of an anxiety attack.
“Strong,” I said, trying not to cough. “Are we celebrating something?”
Sam shrugged, refilled his glass. “Every day above ground is worth a toast, right?”
He leaned on the island counter, arms folded, robe hanging off his shoulders in a way that would have made Renaissance painters rise from the dead for a shot at it. I took in his face: clear skin, knife-blade cheekbones, eyes that never quite settled on you.
“So what’s the real reason you came?” he asked, voice going soft and real for the first time all night.
I considered lying. Instead I sipped again, buying time.
“I just needed out,” I said finally. “Out of my place, out of my head. You ever get that?”
Sam’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say, “Of course,” but he just nodded and looked out at the city again. The rain was coming harder now, slicing lines down the window.
He wandered off, and I followed, glass in hand, through a side door into the den. This room was dark, walls lined with books and expensive whiskey, the carpet so thick it felt like walking through moss. An enormous TV played muted music videos, the visuals churning colors over the walls.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing at a massage chair parked like a luxury sedan in the corner.
I perched in it. The thing whirred to life the second my weight settled, and a squadron of tiny robots started battering my spine into submission. I tried not to look as relaxed as I was getting, but Sam saw right through it.
“Look at you,” he said, shaking his head with mock admiration. “Already assimilating. By morning, you’ll be a permanent fixture.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.” He winked. “Company makes the place feel less haunted.”
The massage chair went harder, digging into old knots, and I gave in and let myself melt a little. The whiskey looked tempting, so I reached for a bottle.
Sam blocked me with a speed that would’ve scared me if I didn’t know him. He poured two fingers for both of us and set the bottle just out of reach, like a parent limiting sugar intake.
“To old times,” he said, raising his glass.
I toasted back. “And to not dying of luxury.”
He took a sip, then gave me the weirdest smile. “You’re not going to die here. That’s not how it works.”
Something in the way he said it made my neck prickle, but I ignored it.
We settled into the den. Sam slouched into an armchair, legs splayed, looking every bit the king of this neon-lit kingdom. The house creaked and murmured around us, rain rattling the windows, the world outside sealed away by triple-pane glass and money.
I closed my eyes and let the chair pummel me, and the next thing I knew, Sam was leaning over me, face inches from mine.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You were gone for a sec.”
“Sorry. This chair is fucking demonic.” I tried to sit up, but my body didn’t want to move.
He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
When I finally managed to lever myself out of the chair, I reached for my suitcase, thinking I’d grab my hoodie and maybe sneak a Xanax in the bathroom. Only there was no suitcase. Not on the couch, not by the door, not in any corner of the room.
“Where’s my bag?” I said, more curious than panicked. I’d packed it out of reflex, mostly with chargers and backup meds.
Sam’s head tilted. “Oh, don’t worry about it. You can settle up later.”
“Settle what, exactly?”
He gave me a smile that was too nice, like a host explaining that, yes, the foie gras is made from force-fed ducks. “The bill.”
I waited for him to laugh, to make it into a joke, but he just sipped his whiskey and looked at me, perfectly still.
The rain came down harder, and the fireplace snapped to life, casting the room in hot gold.
“You sure you’re okay?” Sam asked, voice softer this time.
I thought about the missing bag, about how the house seemed to swallow up everything that didn’t belong, and wondered if I’d ever actually get out.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a weird night, that’s all.”
He nodded, and for a moment the only sound was the massage chair, winding down to nothing.
I stared at the empty spot on the floor where my suitcase had been, and tried not to think about what else I might lose by morning.
Scene 3
Sam waited until full dark to unleash the dining room.
I’d assumed dinner would be some casual DoorDash in front of the TV, but instead he led me down a corridor that was all mirrors and weird lighting, like a funhouse designed by socialites with a cocaine problem. At the end was a set of glass double doors. He pushed them open with both hands and gestured for me to enter, as if I was royalty or livestock, hard to say which.
The dining table ran the length of the room, a polished slab of wood that probably had a Wikipedia page. But the thing that caught me wasn’t the furniture or the skyline view. It was the portraits.
Lining the walls were dozens—maybe hundreds—of family photos. Some huge, some tiny, all in frames that clashed like a thrift store argument. There were old sepia jobs, the kind with kids dressed as turn-of-the-century ghosts. There were high-gloss shots of graduates in caps and gowns. There were candids, holiday cards, one whole wall of wedding disasters, everyone squinting and half-smiling under the weight of invisible grudges.
The creepiest part? They were all families I recognized. Not in that “oh, that’s my cousin” way, but in that “this is the exact photo my mom keeps on the mantle, right down to the embarrassing bowl cut” way. My stomach did a neat little somersault.
Sam saw me looking and grinned. “Cool, right? Little gallery of what makes us tick.”
I sidled up to a frame and peered in. It was my dad, young and triumphant, holding up a trophy at a Little League game. I remembered the day. I remembered the trophy—how it got lost in a move. I remembered thinking I’d never see it again.
Now here it was, in Sam’s house, behind museum glass.
I found a seat at the table, not sure whether to be flattered or freaked out. Sam glided around, filling wine glasses and humming tunelessly. He wore the same robe, but with pants this time, as if he’d upgraded from lounge to semi-formal.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said. “Tonight’s all about comfort food.”
He clapped, and from a hidden side door, a pair of silent, bearded men appeared—identical twins, maybe, or just copies run off a bored billionaire’s assembly line. They wore gloves and aprons and carried covered silver platters, like butlers in a movie. They set the food in front of us with the precision of robots.
Sam lifted a dome with a flourish. Underneath: Kraft mac and cheese, but arranged like a deconstructed gourmet dish. The noodles were stacked in a little pyramid, the orange sauce streaked artfully across the plate. On the side, a slice of Wonder Bread toasted to perfection, butter melting in a tiny pool.
I stared. I hadn’t mentioned to Sam how many nights this was all I’d eaten growing up. I’d never told him about the mac and cheese, or the peanut butter sandwiches, or the weird comfort of a food rut.
But here it was.
He dug in, face lighting up with genuine joy. “Dig in, babe. I had the chef deep-dive your social media and text messages for inspiration. Not creepy, just thorough.”
“Sure,” I said, but my mouth had gone dry.
I took a bite. It tasted exactly right—better than right, because it was perfect memory food, the kind you can only make by screwing it up a thousand times as a kid. It was like eating my own nostalgia. Every forkful brought up some ancient feeling I’d buried under years of sarcastic jokes and shitty takeout.
Course after course, the pattern repeated. Chicken nuggets with ketchup packets—just like the ones I used to sneak from the cafeteria. Banana pudding in a glass, topped with exactly three Nilla Wafers. A grilled cheese with American singles, cut diagonally, just the way I liked.
Each dish came with a side of déjà vu, and every time I looked up at the walls, I saw another memory flash by. My own childhood dog, tongue out and goofy, tail a blur. My brother on his first day of school, already hating the world. My mom on her wedding day, young and scared and beautiful.
I was floating in a soup of my own past.
Sam watched me eat, not saying much, but his eyes got softer, less predator and more caretaker.
When dessert arrived, it was a Hostess cupcake, the kind with the swirl on top. The butler placed it in front of me with reverence, and for a second I almost cried. I hadn’t thought about those cupcakes in years. They were banned in my house, the forbidden fruit of gas station runs. I’d bought them with loose change, eating them in secret, the frosting always too sweet and the center too chemical and perfect.
Sam picked up his fork and split the cupcake, offering half to me.
I took it and ate, slow and deliberate.
After a long silence, he said, “I remembered. It’s my job to remember.”
The words hung there, echoing off the portraits and the crystal glass. I looked at him and realized that, for once, he wasn’t making a joke, or a power play, or even trying to get in my pants. He just wanted me to feel…seen.
And for a minute, I did.
We sat there, surrounded by ghosts, eating the memories that made me.
At some point, the wine hit me all at once. My head spun in slow, syrupy circles. I felt like a jellyfish washed up on a warm beach: soft, useless, at peace.
Sam helped me up, steering me down the hall to a guest room that looked like it belonged to the world’s chillest cult leader. I landed face-first on the bed, and the last thing I heard was him saying, “Rest. Tomorrow, everything will make sense.”
—
I woke up with my mouth tasting like a battery, sunlight pouring in through windows I didn’t remember opening. The sheets were softer than anything I’d ever slept on. My phone was gone. My suitcase was gone. My memory of last night was blurry around the edges, like a document scanned too many times.
I staggered to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, then saw the envelope on the marble counter.
White. Heavy. My name scrawled across it in glitter pen, like a ransom note from a craft store maniac.
Inside was a single sheet of thick paper. It read:
Amount Due: 900 Memories
I stared at it, confused, then flipped the page over. Nothing on the back.
I blinked, and realized I couldn’t remember what day it was. Or why I’d come to Sam’s house. Or what the fuck had happened after dessert.
I reached for the door, but my hand shook too hard to turn the knob. Instead I just stood there, staring at the envelope, feeling lighter and emptier than I ever had before.
I tried to call out for Sam, but nothing came out. My throat worked, but no sound.
I looked in the mirror. For a second, I didn’t recognize the person staring back.
Then, slowly, I remembered.
Not all of it, not even most.
Just enough to know I was in debt, and there was no way I’d ever pay it off.
Scene 4
I found Sam waiting for me in the living room, dressed in black from neck to ankles. Even his feet were covered—matte socks, no shoes, like a mortician for the very rich. The silk robe was gone, replaced with a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up, arms tensed along the mantel.
The fireplace was going absolutely feral. Flames licked at the glass, casting the whole room in a reddish pulse. Every shadow was ten feet tall.
I didn’t see my suitcase, or my phone, or anything that belonged to me. Not even the sneakers from his display. Just Sam, and the smell of burning cedar, and the low hum of the security orb overhead.
I edged toward the door.
Sam moved fast, smoother than a threat. He put himself between me and the exit, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Going somewhere?” he asked. Voice syrupy, sweet. Like he was offering a cigarette to someone standing on a ledge.
“I just need some air,” I said, knowing it sounded like a lie.
“You’ll find it stuffy out there,” he said. “Plus, you haven’t settled up.”
He let the words hang in the room. I remembered the envelope, the number: 900 Memories.
“Dude, I don’t even know what that means. I didn’t ask for this. You invited me. I just showed up with a bag and—”
Sam held up a hand, the universal sign for “shut up, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“You came for comfort. For escape. For something you can’t name.” His voice was so soft I had to lean forward, which was the point. “That comes at a cost.”
The flames popped. I tried to focus, but my mind was skipping like a scratched CD. I couldn’t remember the drive here. Couldn’t remember what happened after the mac and cheese. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what I’d planned to do after seeing Sam.
I stared at my hands. They didn’t look right, like I’d borrowed them from someone else. My head buzzed with static.
Sam stepped closer. I wanted to back up, but my feet stuck. His eyes were gentle, almost kind, and I hated that I wanted him to help me.
“Everyone pays. Even you,” he said. He didn’t have to raise his voice—the words hit harder because of it.
I looked past him, desperate for an out. The windows were locked, double-paned and unbreakable. The hallway bristled with cameras and fake flowers and memories that weren’t mine anymore.
“What if I don’t?” I asked, voice cracking.
Sam’s smile went sad at the edges. “You already have. That’s how this works. The bill comes after.”
He led me back to the couch, not shoving, just gently herding me. I dropped down onto the cushion, which was warm from the fire. Sam sat next to me, closer than before.
“You know how most people lose their memories?” he said, tone almost academic. “Head injuries. Blackouts. Age. I just speed up the process. I take what people don’t want anymore, or can’t use.”
He tapped his chest, right over the heart. “But I keep it safe. I keep it for you. So when you come back, you don’t have to carry it.”
I wanted to ask why, or how, or who put him in charge, but my tongue felt glued to my teeth.
Sam lifted my chin, forced my eyes to his. “You’re not the only one. No one’s ever the only one.”
He reached behind the couch, fished out a small box. Inside were Polaroids, hundreds of them. Every one was a picture of someone I recognized—old classmates, exes, relatives, people from the coffee shop, that guy who’d cut me off in traffic last month.
And there, in the middle, was a photo of me.
Eyes glazed, holding a glass of wine, smile empty.
“I keep records. I don’t let anything get lost,” Sam said.
The room felt like it was tilting. My memories were sliding out of me and into the fire, burning off with every log that snapped.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I whispered.
Sam let go of my face. “No. But you accepted it.”
He placed the Polaroid in my hand. I looked at it, then at the others. I wondered if every person who’d ever set foot in this house left a piece behind, some little chunk of memory to be filed away and kept like a coin in a jar.
“So pay,” Sam said. Not cruel, not angry. Just a fact.
I stared into the fire, clutching the photo, and tried to remember what I’d come here for.
There was only warmth, and light, and the faint taste of cupcakes on my tongue.