The funny thing about the day Davis died was that I was in the shower when the phone rang. I remembered telling them at the hospital to call me if anything major happened, if he came out of his coma with a crash and a bang because Davis did everything with a crash and a bang. Except, of course, die, which he did with a soft beeping noise and a formerly wavy line going flat. And then? Nothing.
I didn't even hear the phone ring, so I got the news by way of an answering machine message. I can't remember much of the message except whoever called pronounced my last name wrong. She called me "Rodney Blithee," instead of "Blithe," which has a long i and a silent e. That's how we'd always been. Rodney and Davis "Blithee", until the rift. We'd become some sort of union, some sort of pair; you could hear our names blending into one another, until we were Rodney and Davis instead of Rodney or Davis.