You were an aspiring writer, thrillers and mystery novels being some of your best works. Your roommate, with all his quirks, ended up being one of your best resources for writing. “Hey Atticus,” you spun in your chair absentmindedly, “how long would it take for someone to pass out from pain through carving on the stomach? I’m talking with a dull and rusty blade.” “45 minutes. Max. After 30 even a grown man would be struggling to maintain enough energy to muster up a scream.”