"How are you doing with this?" the Muse asked me, her voice sounding fuzzy and digitized from the cell phone she was calling me with.

"On a scale of..?"

"Hmm. On a scale of one to a hundred."

I thought a moment. "I'd say about sixty-eight percent of me wants to break something, drink to oblivion, and wake up once they've found a cure for life."

"Is that better or worse than you'd expected?" she asked.

"It's better, actually," I lied. "But not by much."

"You're completely full of shit," she said.

"Yes. Yes, I am. I'm also a little irrational. It'll pass."

"It had better."

"Call me tomorrow, Muse," I said. "And please don't use a cellphone. I know you hate them as much as I do."

"Sorry," she said. "It was the only phone he had."

"Goodnight, Muse," I said, and hung up.