The students finally got their party.
Susan declared this a victory for civilization.
Tina called it statistical inevitability.
Jerry fought with Mike about music for twenty minutes before anyone else arrived.
"You cannot open with eight minutes of progressive metal."
"Why not?"
"Because people want to dance."
"People can dance in seven-eight."
"No one wants to count while dancing."
The argument ended when Susan took control of the playlist.
By nine, the apartment was full.
By ten, somebody had started karaoke.
By eleven, philosophy had returned despite everyone's agreement not to discuss it.
A boy chose "Knockin' on Heaven's Door."
Jerry groaned.
"Of course."
Tina listened to the words.
"Do you know what the song is about?"
"Death?" Mike guessed.
"A dying lawman," she said. "His badge doesn't matter anymore. The guns don't matter anymore."
Susan looked at her.
"You brought philosophy to karaoke."
"You brought me to the party."
"Fair."
Jerry leaned against the wall.
"It's strange."
"What?"
"The song asks for the guns to be put in the ground."
Mike nodded toward the band logo on someone's shirt.
"Guns N' Roses."
Tina smiled.
"Destruction and life in the same name."
Jerry raised his cup.
"Very deep."
Then someone screamed from the hallway.
A boy had collapsed on the staircase.
The music stopped.
For one second everyone froze.
Then the power failed.
Darkness.
Phones appeared.
No signal.
Someone shouted to call an ambulance.
One hallway light turned on.
Only one.
Then the next.
Then the exterior light.
Then a streetlight.
Another.
A path.
Susan ran outside.
Far down the road, blue emergency lights were already approaching.
"Did someone call?"
Nobody answered.
The ambulance arrived in less than two minutes.
Later the paramedic looked confused.
"The dispatch came four minutes before the first call from this address."
Tina looked at Jerry.
Jerry looked away.
Nobody restarted karaoke.
The boy was stable.
A reaction to medication and alcohol.
He would be fine.
The party became quieter.
At one in the morning Jerry picked up his car keys.
Susan took them.
"I'm fine."
"No."
"I barely drank."
"You drank."
"Two."
"Then you're not driving."
Jerry reached for the keys.
Tina held out her hand.
"I had water."
He looked at her.
"You hate driving."
"I hate funerals more."
He surrendered.
In the car, the city passed quietly.
Jerry looked through the windshield.
"Guns and roses."
Susan turned in the passenger seat.
"What?"
"Maybe that's the whole problem."
Mike yawned.
"Please don't start philosophy."
Jerry watched Tina drive.
"Maybe we spend too much time being impressed by the guns."
Nobody answered.
"And not enough time building the roses."
This time nobody laughed.
At a red light, the dashboard flickered.
One sentence.
GOOD.
Tina sighed.
"Even the mysterious intelligence is judging our metaphors now."
The light turned green.
They drove home.