"I really appreciate this," Kelly said, sitting in the passenger seat as Wyatt drove; she continued, "my parents work, and Rachel works, but you're like your own boss so you have the ability to help out whenever you want. I really do appreciate it. I needed to get some of these things done."

Wyatt nodded, listening but not listening. His mind was elsewhere, specifically with Scarlett. He rubbed his eyes as they came to a red light.

"...how are you?" Kelly asked, "I mean, like, how is everything? All things considered."

Wyatt glanced at her. How was everything? He smiled weakly and nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Kelly had survived a plane crash. She didn't need to worry about anything else right now.

                                                                                                         ***

Kelly Schuester had been in band in Freshman year, playing the saxophone, and was surprisingly adept at it. And, for a lot of sporting events, the band was expected to be present, providing background music, including baseball. Kelly, decked out in her full band uniform, saxophone case slung across her chest and over her shoulder, was sitting uncomfortably on one of the bottom bleachers as the football team practiced nearby. She pulled open the plastic wrap covering her sandwich and bit into it as someone sat down on the bench beside her, glancing up to recognize a boy from the baseball team and a girl she knew from art class sitting together, he in his baseball uniform and her in her regular clothes, sharing a soda.

"Football is the one sport I don't respect," Amelia said as she took a long sip.

"And why is that?" Wyatt asked.

"Because football is all about brute force. Baseball requires math, logics. Tennis requires true agility, geometry. But football...it's just...people running into eachother. I know it's more complicated than that, but at a base level that's what it is."

"Well, I'm glad you like baseball at least," Wyatt said, "otherwise I'd feel pretty stupid wearing this."

Amelia and Wyatt laughed and Kelly felt embarrassed. She was somewhat jealous. She'd never had a boyfriend, or anything of the sort, and all the boys she did have crushes on, none of them ever liked her back, and the boys who did find an interest in her were...well....less than ideal in regards to their actions towards her. She continued eating, listening to them talk.

"What are you doing after school?" Amelia asked, "Cause I found a cemetary I want to take photos of."

"That sounds cool," Wyatt replied, "we could totally do that. So long as we won't piss off the dead."

"What are they gonna do, haunt us?" Amelia asked, the both of them laughing again.

Kelly did her best to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut, focusing instead on the sandwich in her hands, but it wasn't enough. She'd never have a relationship in the entirety of high school, and rarely outside of high school either, even after graduation. Truth be told, Kelly Schuester, despite her abilities and her genune kindness and her big heartedness, had never once been loved by someone the way she wanted, and she secretly craved it so bad. But, until then...Tuna Salad would have to do, she guessed.

                                                                                                        ***

"Why do you still have braces? You're in your thirties," Wyatt said.

"Because I have Temporomandibular joint dysfunction," Kelly said, as Wyatt raised his eyebrows and she smirked before adding, "jaw pain. I had my wisdom teeth taken out sometime last year, and since then I've had these to help reduce the jaw pain. It eases pressure and tension. I grit my teeth a lot, so."

Wyatt and Kelly were sitting in a laundromat, waiting for Kelly's drycleaning to be gotten.

"I don't think I ever had braces," Wyatt said, crossing his legs, "I think I had perfect teeth."

"Well, we can't all be handsome adonises," Kelly replied, making Wyatt laugh as she blushed and continued, "actually, I like them. They kind of set me apart. I got so used to being different when in school that now being different is just kind of my entire personality. Not in an obnoxious way, but more in a...like a...I'm interesting because of it kind of way, if that makes sense? If I wasn't different, I don't think I'd be nearly as interesting in general."

Wyatt nodded, listening. He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands in his lap, picking at his nails.

"Yeah, yeah I get that," Wyatt said, "like, people use your differences against you, so you empower yourself by being proud of them, right? That is kind of admirable, honestly."

Kelly nodded, but didn't respond. After a few more minutes her dry cleaning was finished, so they took it to the car, got back in and began to drive to the grocery store for her next errand. Wyatt always enjoyed grocery shopping, he found it oddly...relaxing. Course, he usually did it alone, but hey, there was fun to be had with other people sometimes. He remembered when he and Scarlett got their first apartment, before they had the house, and they used to go grocery shopping together all the time, even when they didn't need anything, just for something fun and cheap to do together. Walking down the aisles, pushing the cart as Kelly hobbled alongside him, Wyatt couldn't help but feel like that again now.

"Do you ever miss being in high school?" Wyatt asked, "people always say it's the best time of your life, but how sad is that? The peak of your entire existence is hormone riddled adolescence? Sounds like shit to me."

"For some people it probably was," Kelly said, "the people who were popular and knew how to have fun in that traditionally expected teenager way. For others, like myself, it was really hell. I didn't really enjoy anything about high school, especially once Rachel decided to stop being my friend."

"Yeah, that had to be rough, sorry about that," Wyatt said as they stopped so Kelly could compare a few different boxes of pasta.

"Eh," she said, shrugging, "it's in the past, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still sting a bit in the present, even if we're friends again now. Besides, I have more friends now than I did then, better friends, cooler friends."

Wyatt smiled a little. He couldn't help but feel infected by Kelly's enthusiasm, and then his thoughts turned back to Scarlett, and the fight they'd had that morning. Seemed like all they'd been doing lately was fighting, and he wanted to fix that. Maybe, before they finished their errands, they'd stop at the florist.

                                                                                                          ***

Kelly, seated alone at a table while her bandmate peers all laughed and talk together at another table, tried not to feel too guilty about being on her own. In some ways, she preferred it, but in others, she wished she could join in on their vapid empty conversations. She continued cleaning her saxophone and then packed it up in its bag and headed into the hallway from the cafeteria, walking a bit down the hall until she found the empty space tucked away underneath a stairwell and plopped herself down in the darkened corner. This was her favorite spot to be, because nobody even noticed she was gone, or was there.

As she pulled out a large book about horses from her backpack and opened it, she could hear the clomping of shoes going up and down the stairs overhead, and it was oddly rythmic and relaxing. She leaned back against the wall, knowing she still had a good chunk of time until lunch was over and her next class begun, and started to read. Suddenly, and without warning, someone else scuttered into the space beneath the stairs, surprising her. It was the girl Wyatt had been talking to on the bleachers, Amelia. Kelly lowered her book as Amelia hid and pulled the bookbag against her chest, her eyes red.

"...are you okay?" Kelly asked, and she shook her head; Kelly hesitated, bit her lip, then asked, "what's wrong?"

"People are liars," Amelia whispered, her nose stuffed from crying, "they use you and they lie and they tell you things you wanna hear but things they'll never stick to just so they can continue taking advantage of you."

"Is this about your boyfriend?" Kelly asked, and Amelia glanced towards her, lowering her eyebrows.

"What? No. This is about my father," she said, "no, Wyatt's great, he'd never hurt me. No, my father told me that I should give up on my art, and pick an actual career. This, coming from the man who's a dentist. Doesn't even own the dentistry company he works for, just works for them. Real good person to be taking advice from. My brother and I are both smart enough to get into prestigious technical colleges, and yet he and my mother both want me to give up on my art because they think it 'won't be substantial, financially'. As if something that fulfills you on a personal level has to pay the bills."

Kelly went quiet and just listened. Amelia pushed her hair back into a bushy ponytail and tied up, then wiped her face on her sweater sleeve.

"I think, if you like something enough, you should continue to do it," Kelly said, "regardless of what anyone else might say. Screw them. It's not their future. Just because they couldn't do anything with their lives doesn't mean you can't or shouldn't try to."

Amelia smiled a little, and looked back down at her shoes as Kelly shifted, somewhat uncomfortably, in her cramped space. After a few minutes, Amelia exhaled deeply, slowly and looked back up at Kelly.

"I guess you're in band?" she asked, noticing the uniform.

"Yeah, we have a competition today," Kelly said.

"That's cool. I can only play the piano and even then I don't really to," Amelia replied, checking her watch, "I guess I should go, but...it's nice to talk to someone who also understands the arts. Thanks for talking to me. You're not wrong, either. I'm gonna stick to my guns, not that there was any doubt but having backup sure helps my motivation."

Kelly smiled and waved as Amelia crawled back out from her space and exited, leaving Kelly all alone there once again. Never a friend. Just a bystander with advice.

                                                                                                         ***

Wyatt and Kelly had stopped at a taco stand somewhere downtown to get lunch, and were now sitting in his car, parked in a lot near a large department store, munching away. Kelly looked out the window as she chewed, at a group of teenagers walking along together. Wyatt picked up his cup and took a long sip, as Kelly sighed.

"I'm not saying I'm happy you guys almost got me killed," Kelly said, "but I do admit it's nice to be included in something, even if it something of such illegal measure. When I was a kid, I never had any friends, well, besides Rachel, and even then she eventually stopped talking to me. I understand her reasoning now, but...at the time it really hurt. I also never had a boyfriend or anything. I spent most of my youth watching other kids have fun and be social, because it wasn't something I could obtain for myself."

She turned her head back, took another bite and chewed, then looked towards Wyatt, who was listening intently as he ate.

"Anyway," Kelly said, "I'm just saying it's nice to be included in something, and be considered a person worth caring about. My parents were my only companionship for most of my life and god now saying that out loud makes me realize just how fucking depressing that is to admit and acknowledge."

Wyatt threw his head back and laughed as Kelly opened a small packet of hot sauce and put it on her taco remains.

"I was pretty popular in school all throughout," Wyatt said, "but at the same time, I kind of resented it. It was like they expected me to act like an asshole just because of that, and I'm not an asshole. I go out of my way to try and be nice to people, because that's how my mother raised me. That's why I liked to hang out with the quote unquote 'unpopular kids', because they had experience and wisdom and perspective that I wasn't capable of attaining, because we lived such vastly different lives just because of our social circles, or in their cases more often than not, lack thereof. I think it makes you cooler having been a loner, frankly. Like you said, your differences are your strong suit."

Kelly blushed a little, and nodded as she continued eating. She appreciated Wyatt's friendship so much, even if she couldn't openly say it. The fact that he was helping her run errands, even if only partially to avoid being home, was also very comforting to her. She finished her taco and exhaled, putting her hands on her knees.

"Hearing your voice before the crash," Kelly said, speaking slowly and quietly, as if speaking any louder would somehow shatter glass, "...it helped. It didn't keep me calm, but...it was nice to know, in what I assumed at the time were my last minutes alive, that there was someone on the planet besides my folks and Rachel who cared that much about me."

She looked up and they locked eyes. She smiled bashfully.

"So thanks for that, I guess," she said.

"Hey, whatever I can do to ensure your impending doom is as comfortable as possible, I'll do," Wyatt said, the both of them laughing.

                                                                                                           ***

Kelly and Rachel were out with Kelly's parents at minigol one weekend in Junior year. This had become a routine for them, every Friday night to go minigolfing with Kelly's parents. Rachel liked it because her own parents were so overbearing and cruel, and Kelly liked it because, well, she had her best friend along with her, and that made her feel almost normal. As they walked from one hole to another, Kelly's parents a bit ahead of them, Kelly couldn't help but feel like this was what normal teenage life was supposed to feel like.

"It's weird how simply miniaturizing something gives it vastly more appeal," Rachel said.

"What do you mean?" Kelly asked, twirling her club.

"Well," Rachel continued, "ponies are cuter than horses, they always make the baby version of something popular eventually, and real golf is friggin boring. I don't know, it just seems like people always like the smaller version of things, and I don't blame 'em. I get it."

"It's true, real golf is friggin boring," Kelly said, agreeing, as they both laughed; she continued, "I lke regular horses though, I don't buy into the idea that just because something is smaller it's automatically cuter. I hate babies, for instance. They're ugly and gross."

"Never be a mom," Rachel said, putting her hand on Rachel's shoulder, the both of them laughing again. They finally reached the hole and, along with Kelly's parents, took their next shot. After the game, they all headed back inside the building that the minigolf company operated out of for some food and to play arcade games. After earing, while Kelly's parents sat at the table and chatted and Rachel went off to find some kind of lightgun game to enjoy, Kelly wandered aimlessly through the crowd of her peers, hoping to seek out something worth spending her quarters on. That's when she saw them, Amelia, sitting alone in the plastic seat of a boat racing game. Kelly walked up and sat down herself in the seat beside her.

"Hi," Kelly said.

"hey," Amelia whimpered meekly.

"...do you wanna play this with me?" Kelly asked, and Amelia looked at her. She'd clearly been crying again, but this time, Kelly noticed something. The locket she'd had before, the one that Wyatt had given her at some point in time, was missing. Kelly didn't need explanation. Visual insinuation was more than enough. Amelia wiped her eyes and nodded.

"Yeah, I would, yeah," Amelia said, and with that, Kelly pumped her quarters into the machine and the girls raced. It was never really a friendship, and she wouldn't even remember her name come years down the road, but at the time, Kelly saw a girl, much like herself, who needed someone, and she'd be damned if she was going to ignore that the way others had ignored her.

                                                                                                         ***

"Welp, hope it was as fun as you expected it to be," Wyatt said, pulling up to Kelly's parents house. She climbed out of the car and gathered her things from the trunk. Wyatt climbed out and joined her, taking her groceries while she took her laundry, and they walked up the lawn towards the front door. Kelly opened the door with a key and then they walked inside, setting stuff down in the living room. Kelly turned to face Wyatt, who was now standing in the open doorframe.

"Thanks for helping," Kelly said, "I really couldn't have done all this alone."

"Well, it's the least I could do, considering I'm partially responsible for your situation," Wyatt said, smirking, before turning and walking out the door. Kelly approached, ready to shut it, when he pushed it back open, surprising her; he opened his mouth and said, "...for what it's worth, I'm really sorry we weren't friends in high school."

This took Kelly by absolute surprise. The last thing she'd expected was this sort of admittance.

"You were probably really cool, I mean you are now too, but ya know. I was just so far up my own ass with drama, between my girlfriends and my father and the baseball team and everything, I just...I guess I didn't take the time to recognize the people who are actually interesting, instead of all those fake people I spent time with instead. I'm sorry high school was so shit for you, but for what it's worth, even with all my blessings, it wasn't great for me either. And I'm sorry we weren't friends."

Kelly smiled, wanting to cry, but instead just hugged him. He hugged her back, then left. As she shut the door and watched him at the window as his car pulled away, flowers on the dashboard for his wife, Kelly couldn't help but feel like, in a way, all the bullshit that highschool entailed simply led to the adulthood she now had, and she really wouldn't trade that for anything. Sure, it would've been nice to know Wyatt, actually know him, in high school, but the way she saw it, she got to know him at his best, now, as an adult, and that was well worth the trade off. She closed the blinds and got to putting away the groceries. Her parents would be home soon, and they didn't like a mess.

Boris had the apartment to himself for the day.

Whittle and Jenn had taken Melody out for her physical therapy - just going for walks to strengthen her leg muscles - and Father Krickett was at the church, finishing up the last bit of paperwork to make it officially theirs and able to open for the public. Boris put on an old jazz record, made himself some tea and decided to spend the afternoon looking through photo albums. Some of his family, some of his wife and daughter, and some he'd taken while at the home. Sitting on the couch, he turned the page, sipped, and came across a snapshot of himself and Polly while on their little bender. She'd bought a disposable camera, and he was so happy to have these brief moments in time captured forever with her. He smiled, just as a knock came at the door. Boris groaned, stood up and went to answer it. Much to his surprise, Ellen was standing on the other side.

"Hey, well now, this is a nice thing to see," Boris said, "What are you doing here?"

"I made a decision about something, and I wanna talk to you about it," Ellen said, "Can I come in?"

"Of course, you want some tea?" Boris asked, as he shuffled aside, allowing her entrance.

"No, I'm okay, actually I just had breakfast, so I'm pretty satisfied," Ellen said, before stopping and turning to face her father, smiling ear to ear, "Dad. I'm getting married."

"I...I know that. I'm dying, I don't have dementia," Boris replied, making her laugh.

"No, I'm getting married in two weeks," Ellen said, "for you. I'm doing it for you. So you can be there to see it."

Boris didn't know what to say. All his words caught in his throat, and his eyes swelled up with tears. He had to admit, of all the things he could've been given before his death, this was the greatest thing of all.

                                                                                                          ***

Melody hated walking.

She used to love it. She used to go for long hikes and even did jogging at one point. She even ran track in high school. Now though, now that she was expected to walk, she hated it. She hated having things be expected of her, things like continuing to live when she so clearly didn't want to. Whittle and Jenn had taken her for a long stroll downtown, around the bustling shopping areas, hoping that she would get distracted enough by the sights around her that she would forget about how angry she was that she was still alive. It wasn't working. Instead, she just turned stone quiet, unwilling to even communicate. Whittle and Jenn had stopped in front of a large glass window of a store, admiring some dresses, as Melody stood off to the side against the wall with her arms crossed.

"How much longer do we have to be out for?" Melody asked.

"Well," Whittle said, "it's good for you to walk for at least an hour or two every day. Build back your calf muscles."

"Can we at least get something to eat?" Melody asked, and Whittle shrugged.

"I don't see why not," she replied.

"You know you're just buying distractions, right?" Melody asked as the three women started to continue walking, heading towards a small food cart; she continued, "by buying things you're just distracting yourself from the real issues in your life. The things you don't want to face. Nobody wants to face the bad stuff so they put it off for as long as possible."

"I'm perfectly happy with my life, aside from my friend dying," Whittle said, shrugging, "I don't see anything wrong with having distractions if I'm content."

"Right, you mean to tell me you don't have any deep wells of sadness inside you?" Melody asked, "any regrets or anything like that? I find that hard to believe, frankly."

"This might come as a surprise to you, because you're so attached to the idea of wanting to die, but not everyone feels that way," Jenn said, "there are plenty of people who go through their entire lives being thrilled to be alive, never once wanting to end it. That isn't to say they don't experience sadness, of course, but they don't experience it on the level that you do, and it might be hard for you to comprehend that possibility when you're so steeped in depression."

"Coming from the woman who blindly follows faith," Melody said.

"I'm happy though," Jenn said, squeezing Whittle's hand.

Melody sighed and looked down at her shoes as they approached the cart. Jenn paid for their snacks, then excused herself to go to the restroom, Whittle holding onto hers until she got back. Whittle and Melody found a small bench to sit on and eat, waiting for Jenn to return. As Whittle took a bite out of her churro, Melody shook her head.

"I didn't use to be like this," Melody said, "I'm not saying I was happy go lucky oblivious moron, but...I didn't use to be this bitter. I think it's hard to get back to who you used to be when it's been stripped from you for so long. I'd like to, but sometimes I wonder if it's even possible."

Whittle nodded and took another bite, chewing as she thought. Melody started in on her own, and together they sat in silence, eating for a bit. After a few minutes, Whittle swallowed, then spoke.

"I think just recognizing that is a step in the right direction, that this isn't who you were before, and that you don't want to be this way forever," Whittle said, "when I worked at the home, god, I was surrounded by people who just thought this was how they had to be because it was how they'd been for so long. Granted, these people were in their 70s and up, but still. That's one of the admirable things about Boris. He strove to be better. To not be complacent in his shittiness. He didn't want to die not having changed at all. I can respect that. So yeah, I think acknowledging that is a really positive first step."

"And what about your girlfriend? What about her religious fanaticism?" Melody asked, taking another bite.

"It's a safety net, a comfort blanket of sorts, we all have them," Whittle said, "nothing wrong with it. She's just trying to help in the way she knows how."

Melody nodded and exhaled. She knew Whittle was right, and she didn't want to be this way, it was true. She didn't used to want to be dead. But it had come on so strong, and stayed for so long, that she didn't know how to avoid it at this point, and to be someone else entirely felt weirdly disingenious to who she'd been for so long now. Like she was pretending to be someone she wasn't. An imposter in her own skin. Melody hated walking.

But she sure loved churros.

                                                                                                        ***

"When did this decision come about?" Boris asked.

He and Ellen were now in the kitchen, as he poured himself a new cup of tea. Ellen was seated at the table, looking at her engagement ring. Boris, mug in hand, sat down across from her.

"I asked Miranda if she wouldn't mind moving it up, and we could still have another wedding along the lines we'd planned later on, but I wanted you to be there," Ellen said, "and, because she's perfect, she said it would be fine. I was so scared to ask, but I don't know why."

"Cause you're used to being letdown, which is definitely because of me, and I apologize for instilling that within you," Boris said, raising his mug to his lips and sipping, "but I appreciate this, I really do. I was so sad when you told me you were getting engaged and I wouldn't be there to see it. I've missed out on so much of your life, but to at least witness someone else being there to take care of you, that would give me some sense of peace."

Ellen smiled, pushing her bangs from her face.

"Especially since I did such a poor job," Boris added.

"I don't blame you for everything, if that helps," Ellen said, "I mean, you were trying to push me to do things you thought I'd like, and...and I understand that. What happened could've happened to anyone. And besides, if it hadn't happened, I wouldn't have lost my ability to walk, gotten surgery, met Miranda as my physical therapist and we wouldn't be here right now, so in a way...my engagement is a direct result of your parent ineptitude."

Boris chuckled and nodded.

"I can accept that then," he said, "I take responsibility, even if nobody else will fully lay the blame on me, but I've also come to accept that what happened doesn't define me entirely. Especially so close to the end now, it's been easier to look back at who I was and how far I've come even in just the last few years. I like to think that, if nothing else, I'll be remembered more as who I am now than who I was then."

Ellen smiled and reached across the table, holding her fathers hand.

"I think you will. I'll definitely remember you more as the man before me than the man from back then," she said, "and

"...hey, do you still have your old wheelchair by any chance?"

                                                                                                             ***

Standing in front of a toy shop window while Jenn and Whittle admired cookware in the window of another nearby shop, Melody couldn't help but feel oddly nostalgic. She could remember being a little girl, and loving her toys with all her heart. She could remember spending hours playing with them because she didn't have any friends, and how much happiness and comfort their company brought her, even if it was, in essence, just her own company projected onto them. And she could remember coming home one day from school, when she was 13, and her father having thrown everything out, telling her it was time to grow up, to be a woman. At thirteen years of age. She never forgave him for this, and she mourned the loss each and every day.

"See anything you like?" Whittle asked, coming up by her side, surprising her, making her jump a little.

"I mean, it's stuff for children," Melody replied quietly.

"There's no cutoff to comfort," Whittle said, "just because you're not a certain age doesn't mean you're no longer entitled to something that might make you feel safe. We all deserve to feel safety, even if we have to give it to ourselves, and especially if nobody else will give it to us."

Melody nodded, then looked back from Whittle to the window. Her eyes landed on a stuffed giraffe of moderate size, and she smiled. When she was little, she loved animals. She even had a subscription to a magazine about animals, and always loved to watch nature specials on TV. For a good while, she contemplated becoming a veterinarian but ultimately she decided against it only because she knew she wouldn't have the heart to handle when she wasn't able to save someones pet.

"Listen," Whittle said, "I'm not gonna be one of those people who tells you things will get better. That's a sickeningly display of ignorant positivity. But what I will tell you is my own personal experience. A few years ago, I was despondant. I was trapped in a somewhat abusive relationship, and I was unhappy with my career. Boris told me, during a conversation, that he wanted his life to end with an exclaimation point, not a question mark, and that really stuck with me. As such, I left my boyfriend, left my job, and went back to college for my culinary degree. It's been hard work, but you know what was harder? Staying alive in the situation I was in. That took way more effort on the daily."

Melody responded audibly with a soft low grunt, then looked at the window again.

"I want that giraffe," she said.

"Then get that giraffe," Whittle said, patting her on the back, "if there's one thing Boris has taught me, it's not to deny yourself something just because the world has convinced you you don't deserve it."

With that in mind, Melody entered the store, and exited with the giraffe. It wasn't a big change, but she was taking the effort.

                                                                                                        ***

Boris had ordered in dinner that had arrived by the time the girls got back to the apartment. Whittle and Jenn ate a little bit, then took their leave for Jenn's for the night, leaving Boris and Melody alone. As they cleaned up from dinner, Boris looked at the giraffe on the counter and smiled sweetly.

"You get that today?" he asked, and she nodded, not verbally responding; he pulled the strings at the end of the trashbag tight and lifted it from the trashcan best he could, before adding, "I have something for you."

"You do?" Melody asked, and Boris nodded. He set the bag down and then headed down the hall to his bedroom. He re-emerged moments later, pushing a fancy wheelchair out. Melody looked at it with big eyes and approached slowly as he set it up next to the kitchen table. Melody walked up and reached out, touching it ever so carefully, as if it were made of brittle glass she was afraid would crack at the slightest interaction.

"This belonged to my daughter," Boris said, "I caused a car accident when she was a little, and she needed a wheelchair for most of her life until she got prosthetics. But...if you're struggling to walk right now, I figured it could be of use to you. Nobody should rush your recovery, and it should be done at your own pace."

Melody cautiously sat down in the chair and sniffled. Boris pulled out a chair from the table and slunk down into it, groaning as he did. Melody wiped her face on her shirt sleeve, almost as if she were trying to hide her very visible feelings.

"I wish it'd worked," Melody said.

"I know that feeling," Boris said, "and there's no shame in wanting that."

"I just don't understand why people act as though life is some sacred thing when so many of us are brought into this world against our will, given to people who didn't want us, and in the end, wind up being forgotten entirely. Why is there such a negative stigma attached to correcting a mistake?"

"Because people have been brainwashed into believing life is a gift, not a mistake, but not everyones life is a gift and lots of people just can't fathom that. If you come to them with a problem, even if you're truly trapped and incapable of change, they will look at you with the most quizzicle expression because to them they just can't believe someone can't change something because it comes so easily to them so they figure it must to everyone. My best friend OD'd and frankly, the longer I dwell on it, the more I've come to believe it was intentional. She was in too much pain and didn't want to go on. I don't blame her for doing what was right for her."

Boris reached out and put his hand on Melody's knee, and they locked eyes. He smiled sweetly.

"But I want to see you get better, be what I couldn't, and perhaps that's selfishly vicarious of me, but...I think you are capable of it," Boris said, "of being something greater than your sadness. I wasn't able to escape it, but I think you can. I believe in you."

Melody put her arms around Boris and hugged him tightly, making him laugh. Nobody, in her entire life, had ever once told her they'd believed in her, and it was the one thing she needed to hear the most. Most people, if anything, had done the opposite, wearing her down instead of building her up. Most people had given her grief. Boris had given her hope.

Hope, and a wheelchair.

It hadn't exactly been the best day. Wyatt and Rachel were sitting in the cafe during Rachel's break, each drinking their own coffee, neither one speaking. Wyatt sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking around at all the other people currently in the shop.

"They all make it look so easy," he said, "it always looks so easy from the sidelines, but then, once you're involved, it seems so impossible, and it shouldn't feel impossible, it should feel easy. I'm not saying it shouldn't take any effort, but it shouldn't feel forced."

"Everything's always felt forced," Rachel said, "everything with everyone, always and forever."

"That's a bit dramatic," Wyatt replied, smirking.

"Because it's true," Rachel said, "because nothing with other people is every easy at all in any remote way. You're always questioned, doubted, or entirely disregarded on some level or manner. And even when you think you've finally met the one, when you're finally happy and your dream has come true, it's never the way you want it to be."

"That's life," Wyatt said, picking up his cup and lifting it back to his lips, taking a long sip.

"Says the guy who has everything," Rachel scoffed quietly.

"Excuse me?" Wyatt said, surprised.

"Let's face it, of all of us, you're the one who's made it. Maybe Celia, on some level, but nobody is at the level you're at. You don't have to worry about money or anything, you can just go out and buy your daughter a pony," Rachel said sternly, "meanwhile the rest of us have to work shitty jobs cause we didn't inherit a hugely successful company from our fathers, and in fact, some of us don't even have fathers who want to speak to us."

"Believe me, I'd rather not speak to my father," Wyatt muttered, "...but I guess you're right. That was insensitive of me. I apologize."

They both continued drinking and looking around at all the happy couples.

It hadn't exactly been the best day.

                                                                                                            ***

"You know," Angie said, "when I offered to help you with things, I didn't think they'd be as mundane as grocery shopping."

"Hey," Wyatt said, pushing the cart along an aisle, "you're the one who offered up her services, so I'm gonna put you to work."

"Why did you even want me around?" Angie asked, sipping on the straw in her slushie.

"Because it's nice to be around a woman who isn't questioning every little thing I do," Wyatt said flatly. Angie didn't know this, but earlier that morning, before Wyatt had called Angie up, he and Scarlett had gotten into an argument, an argument that, coincidentally, involved Angie. Angie just shrugged and continued walking alongside the cart as Wyatt grabbed things from the shelves and haphazardly tossed them into the cart. As they turned a corner, Wyatt suddenly backed up and pushed Angie back with him.

"Ow, you ran over my foot! What the hell," Angie asked.

"That's him," Wyatt whispered, peeking around the corner, Angie doing the same. Standing at the end of the aisle was, in fact, Ricky. Wyatt didn't know he was staying in town, much less shopping at his grocery store. Wyatt chewed his lip as he watched the airline investigator choose a brand of bread.

"Who's him?" Angie asked.

"That's the guy who came to my house," Wyatt said, "asking about the crash. He's...he's with the airlines, he's investigating the crash. Says he thinks someone planted an explosive device in someones luggage."

"And why's he talking to you?" Angie asked, furrowing her brow.

"Because the only person who survived is a friend of ours," Wyatt said, "I didn't expect him to be hanging out around town, but I guess he must be interviewing Rachel and Kelly at some point. Would only make sense."

"So why are we hiding from him?" Angie asked.

"Because he has the ability to make my life extremely difficult," Wyatt said under his breath, "and the last thing I need right now is more difficulty."

                                                                                                           ***

Rachel was folding her laundry and hanging other pieces up when Sun Rai came into the bedroom. As Rachel turned, she jumped a little at the sight, laughing. She finished hanging up a jacket and then turned all her attention to Sun Rai, who was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

"What's up?" Rachel asked, "I've got to get to work soon, so I'm just putting this laundry away first and-"

"Were you in Stonyham the other week?" Sun Rai asked, catching Rachel off guard.

"Uh, ye-yeah. I went with my friend Calvin," Rachel said, "he was looking for some supplies for something he's making in his shed. He does a lot of metalwork and stuff. Builds a lot of shit. Why?"

"Because my mother said she saw you," Sun Rai said.

"Well, the hell is your mother doing there? That's no place for moms," Rachel asked, making Sun Rai chuckle.

"Valid question," she said, "but still. What were you even doing down there?"

"I was with Calvin, I told you," Rachel said, "he didn't want to go alone, ya know, cause the area is so...uncouth, so he asked me to come along with him. Don't know why he thought my presence would make a difference. Last thing a bunch of drug dealers and gang bangers are gonna be scared of is a hundred and twenty pound white girl, but hey, who am I to question."

Rachel tied her apron around her back and turned to Sun Rai, kissing her on the cheek and smiling.

"Now I do have to get to work, okay?" she said, and exited. She should've just told Sun Rai that she went and got medication off the street, but...but she was so scared that Sun Rai would judge her for it. So scared that she would see her flaws for what they really were, and, in turn, pull away. What Rachel didn't realize was that by not doing just that, she was in essence pulling away herself, inadvertantly. Sun Rai watched Rachel get her purse and leave the apartment, still just wondering about the whole mess. She knew Rachel had mental health issues, but she had no idea just how severe they were, and as Rachel had put it to Wyatt later that afternoon, "if my parents abandoned me because of it, people who, by all rights, should never abandon their child...what chance do I have of a romantic partner sticking around?"

Some people just don't understand love.

                                                                                                      ***

"What should we do about him?" Angie asked as she helped Wyatt pile his groceries into his car. Wyatt pulled the trunk down and stared at her.

"Nothing," he said, "we do absolutely nothing."

"Yeah, because that gets things accomplished," Angie remarked.

"Listen," Wyatt said, pulling his keys from his jacket pocket and opening the car for them both to climb inside; he continued, "as long as nobody says anything, he'll have nothing to work with and eventually leave. Kelly had nothing to do with the crash, she's innocent as rain and he knows it. It was an act of God, not my God but somebodies God, and that is what the airline is going to have to live with. Sometimes there's nobody at fault. Sometimes shit just happens."

But there was someone at fault, and Wyatt felt disgusted with himself for even trying to believe there wasn't. He climbed into the drivers seat, Angie in the passenger, and he pushed the key into the ignition, the both of them pulling on their seatbelts.

"If he's causing you trouble, though-" Angie started, but Wyatt immediately interrupted her.

"Right now he isn't causing anyone any trouble, he's just doing his job," Wyatt said, "and hopefully when he's done with that, because there's nothing to gain, he'll leave. Someone put a bomb in Kelly's bag. It's fucked up but it happens. Domestic terrorists are a dime a dozen, and they choose their victims at random."

"But why would someone want to blow up a plane filled primarily with members of the Evergreens?" Angie asked, and Wyatt looked at his steering wheel, his eyes watering, and Angie suddenly understood; her voice lowered, and she whispered, "...you know who did it, don't you?"

"I had no idea he'd do this," Wyatt said, "which is so stupid, considering what he'd done before. For some reason I...I just ignored the signs, the warnings. If he's capable of this, what else could he do? That's what everyone keeps asking me. I know something has to be done, but...but I don't know what. I can't just turn him into the investigator, that would destroy my life as well, and I can't kill him, cause, well, that's very obvious why. I'm stuck, Angie, I'm just...I'm fuckin' stuck."

Angie looked at Wyatt, her mind racing a mile a minute. The man she worshipped was in pain, seeking out answers. Maybe...maybe this was how she could prove her worth to him.

"Well," she said, "like you said, he's just looking for answers he won't find, right? So let that be the end of it. You're probably right. Nothing will probably come of it. So let's just hope that that's the case."

"It was about you, you know," Wyatt said.

"W...what?" Angie asked, half laughing, confused.

"The fight I had with my wife this morning, it was about you," Wyatt continued, "she didn't understand why some random woman was coming to see me late at night on my driveway, calling my cell phone. I tried to explain to her that you were just a friend, someone I'd helped, and she seemed to buy that cause it's not totally a lie, but it was weird, defending you to my wife. Defending a damn near total stranger to the woman I've built a life with."

Angie reached out and touched Wyatt's shoulder, patting it gently.

"Everyone needs support," she said softly, "even the strongest of us. I didn't mean for my support to be an issue."

"You're not the issue," Wyatt said, half choked up, "...I just need help"

He hated admitting that.

                                                                                                    ***

"They say a partner is someone who's supposed to be on your side, right along with you, ride or die, right?" Rachel asked, "but...but Hollywood lied to us, and glamorized love to an extent it can't be attained. Nobody is going to agree with you one hundred percent of the time and sometimes you're gonna lie to eachother, and sometimes you'll break up and lose the one you really thought was your true love. There is no true love, though, is there? There's just....different levels of love. Some people are more fit for you than others, and some aren't fit at all."

Wyatt picked up his cookie from the basket Rachel had taken from the back shelf and bit into it, shrugging.

"Why you asking me?" he asked, mouth full of cookie, "I mean, shit, you think I'm any more well versed than you are? So I got married, big whoop, not a huge accomplishment. Anyone can do it. Doesn't mean I'm more knowledgeable about these things. Just means I found someone with standards low enough to want to be with me."

Rachel smirked. She appreciated Wyatt's honesty. The cafe was basically closed out for the night, and they were the only two still sitting inside. Rachel had locked everything up and shut most of the lights off. Being here, just the two of them, it harkened back to the beginning of it all.

"I don't know when or how things got so off track," Rachel said, "one minute we were just...talking about about politics, and suddenly we're knee deep in elephant shit, having blown up a man, having caused an airliner to crash. What the hell happened? If I'd known at the start what Calvin would get me involved with, I wouldn't have gone along with it. I mean, the man was in tremendous pain, sure, but...but that was his fight, not mine. Now it's all of ours. His poor choices, his bad decisions, have eaten our lives."

"I know," Wyatt said, nodding, chewing, "I know."

"What do we do about that? Cause I want my life back, Wyatt," Rachel said, "I want things to go back to normal. Sure it might've been boring, but fuck, at least I wasn't terrified twenty four seven. I miss normality. A life of crime isn't as fun as television makes it look."

"Are you asking me the same thing everyone else has?" Wyatt asked, "the same thing you've asked before? What do we do about him? Because frankly I have no idea. We can't turn him in. We can't kill him. The only thing we can hope for is maybe, MAYBE, he comes to his senses and takes full blame for everything himself. Otherwise...I don't see any good outcome for any of us."

Rachel sighed and rested her head on the table. She thought about that night. The reunion.

"He tricked me," Rachel said, "the night of the reunion, I was so upset because Sun didn't show up that I spent most of the evening out on the back steps with Calvin, drinking and making fun of everyone. He used my disappointment to gain my friendship. I know it's genuine, on some level, like...he wanted to get me medication, I know he does care, but at the same time it feels so sleazy looking back on it."

"That's people for you," Wyatt said, checking his watch.

"People suck," Rachel said, making Wyatt laugh.

"Yeah," he said, "most do."

He reached across the table and held her hand, and for a brief moment, they both felt a little better. Even if Calvin's friendship was on shaky grounds, they knew they always had one another no matter what. This was one friendship that nothing could break.

                                                                                                       ***

Ricky was starting to get undressed.

He'd taken a shower when he'd got back to the hotel, and was now getting changed into his pajamas. The TV was on, but was on mute, and he was busy cleaning his fingernails with a small brush as he watched, reading the subtitles. Suddenly there was a gentle knock at the door, and he walked over. He didn't answer, he just stood there for a moment, and then finally pulled the door open only to be greeted by nothing at all. Nobody was there. Ricky was confused, and stepped out a bit further, where he heard a soft crunch under his foot. He glanced down and saw a piece of paper, folded neatly in front of his door. Ricky bent down and picked it up, then went back inside, shutting the door behind him. He unfolded the paper and his eyes scanned the words.

"Dear sir, you don't know me, but I know what you're looking for. Wyatt Bloom isn't as innocent as he lets on. He knows what caused the crash, he knows who caused the crash. Return to his house soon enough. You'll get the answers you're looking for. I promise."

Ricky smirked. Looks like someone else believed in justice. He folded the paper back up, set it gently on the table with his other files, climbed into bed, and shut off the light.

Chrissy had finished lunch and was now headed to her next class. She'd shuffled all her trash to the nearest bin, then gathered up her things and was heading down the hallway. Her next class wasn't for about fifteen minutes still, but she liked that. It'd give her a chance to check up on her homework, make sure everything was in order, and nothing was incorrect. As she walked down the hall looking at her textbook, knowing she also had a test today, she couldn't help but think about how much her life had changed in the last year or so. She was at a nice school, with friends, and her family was back together, actually working hard to be a family. She felt lucky. Chrissy looked up and stopped dead in her tracks. There, sitting on a bench in the hallway, was Boris, with a wrapped gift in his lap. She smiled and approached him.

"Hey," Boris said, coughing, "sorry to come so unannounced, but I really wanted to give you something. How long do you have until your next class?"

"...who cares," Chrissy said, "this is more important."

Boris laughed. That's the girl he remembered helping raise.

                                                                                                            ***

"How about this one?" Whittle asked, and Father Krickett stopped at a coffin, running his hands down it, feeling the wood grain. He sneered and pulled his hands away, giving the very visual impression her didn't approve of it. Whittle sighed and they continued further into the mortuary, looking at all the available coffins. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

"This doesn't feel real," he said.

"You of all poeple shouldn't feel strange in a place like this, considering how adjacent you are to it on a regular basis via your career," Whittle said.

"Yeah, sure, but that doesn't make it easier when it hits so close to home," Father Krickett said, "I don't know, Reggie, the whole thing just feels like it isn't happening, like it's some fucked up dream I keep hoping I'll wake up from. I know it isn't. I know that's wishful thinking, but..."

He stopped and looked at a nearby casket, one with black ivory handles and gold trim across the front. He felt his eyes tear up, and he bit his lip. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked over at Whittle.

"Hey," she said, "I have a lot of experience in helping people deal with their grief, so if you need to talk about it-"

"What would ever give you the impression I wanted to talk about it?" John asked, "seriously, I'm doing my best to avoid thinking about it and not engaging whatsoever, and you think I wanna talk about it?"

"It's happening whether you acknowledge it or not," Whittle said, "John, it's going to happen."

"Let's just keep looking," Father Krickett said, continuing down the hall. Whittle sighed and followed from behind at a near distance. She knew he didn't want to accept Boris was dying, but at some point he was going to have to, and when that time came...she just hoped he didn't regret denying it for so long.

                                                                                                             ***

"How're things going?" Boris asked as he and Chrissy sat on the bench in the hall.

"It's good!" Chrissy said, "Actually I'm really happy here. I do miss you guys though. My parents don't even want me to see you. They say it's healthier if I just act as though nothing happened, which, of course, isn't healthy, but whatever. What do parents know."

"That's the spirit!" Boris said, laughing, "I'm glad you're doing well. I was so worried that after they took you away you wouldn't manage to adjust, and you'd just...collapse. But I can see now you're stronger than that."

"I was sad," Chrissy said, "devastated, actually. Being torn away from you guys after so long...that sucked."

"I'm sure. I didn't like it either."

"Then why didn't you come see me sooner?" Chrissy asked, looking at him, and Boris exhaled. He knew he'd have to answer this question eventually, he just...he didn't want to. She'd already lost him once. Then again, perhaps the distance would help to create a barrier that would help her not feel so bad. He looked at his shoes, his fingertips tapping on the gift in his lap.

"There's...a handful of reasons, most bad, but...uh," Boris said, struggling to say it, "...phew, um. I'm sick. I'm very sick. I'm...I likely don't have much more than a few weeks left, maybe a month or so. I had to come see you now, and I'm sorry I didn't before. It's just hard when you're focusing on the end of your life."

The hall filled with silence, as Chrissy looked at her hands in her lap.

"You're dying?" she asked softly.

"Yes," Boris said, "but! I came here to give you something."

With that, he picked up and put the gift from his lap into hers. Chrissy looked at it, a bit confused, before looking back at Boris, who just smiled weakly at her. For the first time since she'd known him, she finally saw his oldness. This elderly face. Boris wasn't going to be here much longer.

"It's not much, but...it means a lot to me, and so do you," Boris said, "so I want you to have it."

Chrissy carefully unwrapped the gift, then stopped, a confused look on her face.

"It's a book," she said.

"It's much more than a book," Boris said, "it's my book."

"The one you published?" Chrissy asked, "Couldn't I just get that at the store?"

"No, not that one. This is from long before that," Boris said, and that got her interest.

                                                                                                        ***

Father Krickett had stopped at a totally black casket, with bright hold lining on the outside and inlayed golden flower details on the front all the way down to the bottom. He sucked on his teeth and put his hands on it, admiring its smoothness. Whittle was nearby, looking at a different one, but he tried to ignore her proximity. A man who worked there, presumably to sell these coffins and grave spots, approached her, and John could hear them talking but he did his best to tune it out.

Boris. Underground. Nonexistant. He couldn't fathom this.

The idea that the last few years he'd spent of his life with this man would suddenly cease to be, that the man in question would no longer be around, that scared the hell out of him. Why did he continue to lose the most important parts of himself? His boyfriend. His brother. His Boris. Anytime, it seemed, he allowed himself to love something, something took it away. It wasn't fair and, quite frankly, he was sick of the universe not playing fairly. John rested his hand on the top of the black casket, the coolness of the wood calming him down. Maybe he too should go away. Maybe he and Boris should go together.

What was he thinking. He was a priest and here he was, contemplating suicide. Absurd. He, of all people, shouldn't even begin to debate whether or not life was worth living, but when you love someone so much and they go away...it feels like life isn't worth living. John sighed and rubbed his eyes with his other hand. Frustrated. He was frustrated at his lack of crucial thinking as of late. God. Boris. Either way an old man was dictating his life, and he was beginning to grow infuriated at the fact. Whittle suddenly stopped by his side and sighed.

"He said that we don't have to pay everything upfront," she said, "he knows how costly funerary expenses are, and-"

"I shouldn't be doing this," John said, sounding on the verge of a panic attack.

"He literally asked you be the one to do it," Whittle replied.

"I know, and that's the only reason I am, sticking to my word, but," John said, refusing to look at her, "...but I don't think it's right. I don't think people so close to the soon to be deceased should be the ones making these decisions. It's too difficult. It's too painful. I shouldn't be planning for his death. I should be appreciating his life. I feel so confused."

Whittle nodded, listening. John turned and leaned against the casket, looking out at all the others, crossing his arms. He took a long breath, like he was trying not to cry, and then he wiped his face on his shoulder sleeve. Whittle took the same position, if only because she didn't know what else to do with her body at this point. She figured she'd just wait for him to say something, anything, before trying to resume communication.

"You never think it comes for you," John said quietly, "even after you've experienced it, you still are naive enough to believe that you're untouchable, that the people you love are immortal. But you're always wrong. And it always comes back. You can't stop it and you can't slow it down. It comes with the full force of a wrecking ball, because that's what it does, it wrecks things. He shouldn't be dying. He shouldn't be able to be dead. I can't...I can't lose him too."

Whittle nodded, putting her hand on his back and rubbing. She didn't exactly know what to say, she just knew that she should be here for him. John was clearly struggling with some complicates issues regarding morality. After a few moments of silence, she opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"What kind of God wants to take people away from people they love, that's so selfish," John said, "I've spent my life dedicated to a greedy selfish being who just takes what they want and always asks for more, like a spoiled child. What am I even preaching at  this point? To give in to the delusional whims of a self appointed maniacal power hungry overseer? Why should anyone follow that?"

Whittle was surprised. She certainly hadn't expected John to start speaking ill of his religion.

"...maybe this is just Gods way of telling me it's okay to let go," John said, "of Boris...and religion."

Whittle chewed her lip. She didn't know what to say. What do you say to someone who's not only losing the person closest to them, but the thing they most believe as well? There's no Hallmark card for that situation.

                                                                                                         ***

Chrissy slowly opened the book and started to flip through it, its pages delicate and all the words appearing handwritten. She didn't really understand what exactly it was Boris had gifted her. After turning through a handful of sections, she finally stopped, closed the book again and looked back at him.

"I don't...I don't get it," she said.

"I wrote poetry my whole life," Boris said, "ever since I was a little boy, I've written poetry. It was a form of release I always turned to when things got their worst, or when I felt the best. I wrote poems for others, for myself, for special occasions. Whatever. This book is all of those. I compiled everything and took it to my publisher and asked them to make this one copy. It's the only one that exists, and it's all the poetry I ever wrote that didn't get published in that other book. I wanted you to have it."

Chrissy looked back down at the book and ran her hands across it's smooth, black cover with the gold indented titling.

"You...you want me to have this?" she asked, "Why? Why not your daughter or Whittle or-"

"Because the one thing I screwed up most in my life was raising my daughter, and you gave me a chance to make up for that. I know it wasn't perfect. I know I messed up a few times. I recently finished a bucket list that Carol made me do, and...and it was easy to make those ammends, but the one thing I never could fix was the one thing I wanted to fix the most, and you allowed me to do that just by being in my life. I tried so hard to do right by you, because I did so wrong by her."

Chriss smiled and opened the book back up, then stopped. On the first page was a dedication that simply read "To Chrissy, love Boris. You can do anything." She bit her lip and started to tear up. Boris really had been there for her when she needed someone, and proven to her that the adults around her were capable of caring about the kids in their lives. Hell, his interferance might've been what convinced her parents to get their shit together so she could have a home again. She really did feel like she owed him a lot more than she'd given back.

"I wish you weren't dying," Chrissy said, "it'd be nice to be able to see you more."

"I wish I weren't dying either, believe me," Boris replied, making her laugh as he added, "but I'm here right now. That's what matters. I was never where I needed to be when I was needed, but I'm here right now. I was there for you when you needed someone. That has to count for something. If I screwed up everything else in my life, I can at least comfort myself with the truth that I didn't screw things up for you."

"You sure didn't," Chrissy said, hugging him. Boris stroked her hair and shut his eyes, wanting to cry; Chrissy whispered, "I had the best time living with you guys."

"Having you with us was the happiest time of my life, thank you," Boris mumbled through his tears.

Chrissy didn't make it to her next class. The way she saw it, school would always be there.

Boris wouldn't be.

                                                                                                          ***

"You look like hell," Boris said, entering the diner and seating himself across from John, who was drinking coffee. He was wearing a turtleneck and black slacks. After his day out with Whittle, he needed to change into something, anything, that wasn't related to the church. John scratched his forehead and sipped from his mug.

"You don't look too good yourself," he replied.

"Yeah but I'm old and decrepit, that's expected of me," Boris said, making John smirk; Boris asked, "what did you do today?"

"Went shopping for coffins," John said, "...for you. Found a few you might like, but wanted you to see them first. Figured you should have a say, considering you'll be inside it for eternity."

"I'll be inside it for a maximum of however long it takes me to decay, and then I'll go somewhere else," Boris said.

This statement struck John between the eyes. Boris, talking spiritually? That he'd never expected.

"Are you saying you're eager to moving onto the afterlife?" John asked, folding his arms on the table.

"I'm saying that life was so hard, whatever comes next can't possible be as brutal. If anything, it's a reprieve. I should embrace that. Jenn told Whittle once about how she views the afterlife as The Inevitable Whatever, becase frankly she doesn't know what comes next and, frankly, it doesn't matter. It is what it is and what's done is done. We have no choice but to endure the next thing that the universe throws at us. I wouldn't say I'm excited, and even eager is probably too strong a word, but I can't say I'm not curious. I'm not Leanne curious, but I'm curious."

"...I've been questioning my faith a lot," John whispered, looking down at the table.

"Good," Boris said, "question everything. That's the one thing this society convinces you not to do, so you should absolutely do it. Just because you question something doesn't mean you inherently disbelieve it. You're looking for contextualization. Rationalization. Not proof of it being wrong. Kids get told not to talk back to parents, adults get told not to give grief to authority figures, religious people get told not to wonder about God, but in reality, questioning is the most human thing one can do. Question it all, John. Never stop questioning."

John smiled, nodding. Boris was right. Just because he saw inconsistancies, oddities, things that didn't match up, didn't mean he couldn't still believe. Faith was faith regardless of questioning, and if anything, the fact he still believed in his faith, unshaken from it at the end of the questioning, only proved how powerful it was. John picked up his mug and took a long sip.

"So lemme see these coffins," Boris said.

"Alright but I gotta tell ya, they're pretty gaudy," John said.

"Eh, I didn't splurge much while I was alive, why not go out in style," Boris replied.

So the two men sat together, looking over the photos John had taken of the various coffins, discussing what they each thought about them. Because Boris had been right, when he'd talked to Chrissy. He might be dead soon. There was no avoiding The Inevitable Whatever. But the fact of the matter was right now, he was right here, and he might as well have some fun with the time he had left with the people he loved most.

Those are the moments they'll remember forever.

"It's supposed to be stuff you'd never have done otherwise," Carol said, "things that you might've been interested in doing or scared to do, but now are willing to, given the circumstances."

"Why though?" Boris asked, "why's it got to be things I wouldn't have done otherwise? Why can't it just be simplistic, mundane acts? Why does everything have to be so grandiose?"

Boris and Carol were seated in Carol's office at the home, Carol behind her desk and Boris in a chair off to the side of the wall, his legs crossed, a clipboard with paper on it resting on his lap as he tapped a pen against the arm of the chair. Lately he'd been spending a lot of time at Carol's office simply so he didn't have to be at home around Whittle, and make her feel more uncomfortable with the fact of what was happening to him. Carol picked up her mug and sipped her tea.

"Because your life is ending," Carol said flatly, "that's why. That's when the grandiose becomes acceptable. Try to do these things beforehand in perfectly good health and people just call you crazy. Do them at deaths door and suddenly you're a hero, living life to its fullest."

"There's a rarely seen double standard for you," Boris muttered, making her laugh.

"I don't think enough people acknowledge how actually terrifying facing down the barrel of mortality is," Carol said, "they don't want to, and why should they. Nobody wants to admit they're not going to live forever. Nobody wants to accept that nonexistence is the longest stretch of time. So nobody thinks about these things. But that being said, in the moment, in the face of utter uncertainty, your bravado is what's rewarded. People who go silently into that good night certainly aren't remembered."

Boris nodded slowly, chewing on the end of the pen as the door to the office opened and Burt walked in. He shut the door behind him then leaned against it and wiped his arm across his brow.

"It's hot as hell in here," Burt said, "any room I'm in, I start sweating."

"Yeah, the air conditioner needs to be fixed," Carol said, "I've been meaning to get that dealt with. The whole system is down."

"Maybe I could put that on my bucket list, become air conditioner repair man. Actually learn an employable skill before I expire," Boris said.

"You could install a unit in your coffin, have it temperature controlled for a peaceful rest," Carol said, smirking. Burt seated himself beside Boris and Boris handed him his list. Burt looked down the list while Boris looked back towards Carol, tapping the pen on the arm of the chair.

"So what do you genuinely suggest I do?" Boris asked, and Carol looked up from her paperwork.

"You really wanna know?" she asked, smiling.

                                                                                                      ***

Ellen was sitting with Miranda in a restaurant having lunch. Miranda had a client to get to after work, and Ellen had to get back to the office, but they tried to have lunch every day even with their schedules. They felt that private time together that wasn't strictly in the evening was important. Ellen was drinking from her cup while Miranda explained her latest client.

"I just can't stand that other people in my profession are like 'well they have to WANT to get better in order to do so!', like, that's such a sickening mindset, putting all the pressure on the person who's already struggling. It's like saying nobody will love you if you don't love yourself first. Gross. Way to make someone feel even worse than they already do. I can promise you that I've been loved even at my absolute lowest when I hated myself," Miranda said, stabbing at her pasta, frustrated; she tossed her bangs from her eyes, exhaled and added, "it's just sad. This is supposed to be a profession where we help others, not judge them for not doing better quicker."

"It sounds gross," Ellen replied, "I agree, that isn't right at all. And it's weird that it varies so drastically depending on the condition. Like, for example, when I was unable to walk, people knew that that was something I had no choice in. I was just in a wheelchair. End of story. But then, when I was trying to regain my memory, some of the people working with me would get frustrated for not managing to make progress at a faster rate. It's strange that other peoples expectations of your abilities changes depending on what your disability is."

The chair beside Ellen pulled out, and Boris seated himself, surprising both of them with his presence.

"Hi dad," Ellen said, smiling, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.

"What are we talking about?" Boris asked, picking up a piece of bread and spreading butter on it.

"The medical professions complete inability to respect the very people they claim to care for," Miranda said.

"Wow, you don't sound bitter or anything, good on you," Boris remarked, making her laugh.

"It's just gross," Miranda said, "I spent so much of my life getting my degrees, getting the skills and ability, and then I have to stand and watch others in the same field - others who've been in this field for far longer than I and thus should know better - have no compassion for the people they're supposed to be helping."

"I'm old, and so that means I'm gonna give you advice whether you want it or not," Boris said, wiping his hands together, "here's a cold, hard, sad fact of life...people, more often than not, don't care about one another, especially those in your line of work. As someone who's spent a lot of time with so called 'medical professionals', yeah, you're not wrong about their attitudes. We're more often seen as a nuisance than anything else. And while that's so sad, it also is a good thing, because by recognizing that's how most people are...you can strive to be better. To not be like them."

Miranda nodded slowly, taking it all in. She hadn't spent much time with Boris, admittedly, but she was beginning to feel sad that she wouldn't get to either. Here she was, preparing to marry his daughter, and yet she'd never really get to fully know the complexity of the man who helped bring her into this world.

"I try," Miranda said, "I try very hard to be different from that. I care about my patients on such a deep level that...that it feels like I'm somehow the outsider, and maybe that's because I am, and that's sad. But at least I can walk away with the moral superiority of that fact."

"That's the spirit," Boris said, smiling as they continued eating. One thing he'd put on his list had now been scratched out. Spend some time with his family.

                                                                                                           ***

Lorraine was sitting at her kitchen table, going over bills, when she heard the front door open. She cautiously turned towards the doorway of the kitchen, because who enters a home uninvited, before she saw Boris appear and she then felt fine again. Lorraine smiled at him as he seated himself, looking at the papers she had laid out before her.

"Nice of you to drop by," she said, "I was thinking of calling you up and-"

"I wanna tell you how sorry I am," Boris said, "I know I've said it before, but...facing the end, now, makes me really realize how necessary it is for me to take full responsibility for everything that happened in our lives as a direct result of my actions."

Lorraine nodded, set her pen down, and stood up. She headed to the kitchen area and opened the fridge, pulling out a tupperware housing a cake inside it, and set it on the table, removing the lid, before retrieving two forks and two small plates from a nearby drawer and cabinet, respectively. She handed one of each to Boris, then sat back down as they each cut themselves a slice.

"Well," Boris said, chewing, "I know it's the right thing to do, but I don't necessarily think it deserves a treat."

Lorraine smirked as she poked at hers, and said, "when I was young, my mother always told me to deal with bad situations with good food. When my grandmother died, I came home from school that afternoon and she'd already baked a pie, and I learned why it was called comfort food from that point on. Needless to say, she wasn't wrong."

Boris smiled as she scooped some cake into his mouth and chewed. Lorraine sighed and shook her head.

"Feels like it's over before it starts, doesn't it? Life, I mean. You finally start to want to change, to do more, be different, and then it's over, before you even have the chance. Course, you did get the chance. You're much different than you were a few years ago. Almost unrecognizable, even. I'm proud of you, I hope you know that."

"I do, and I'm thankful," Boris said, "but I didn't do it for recognition. I did it because, at a certain point, you realize that you want to change because you want to change. Because you dislike the person you were and realize they aren't who you want to be remembered as. I think that's what was so admirable to me about Polly. She just...knew who she was and didn't let anything change that. She spit in the face of convention. It was something to appreciate. I wanted to be like that, to know who I was with such certainty, and be proud of it, that nobody could convince me otherwise."

Lorraine smiled as she rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist.

"She meant a lot to you, didn't she?" Lorraine asked, and Boris smiled.

"She really did."

"You think you loved her?"

"I mean, I did, but not like that," Boris said, "no. I think...I think the thing I've come to recognize myself the most - which may or may not be partially in thanks to her, ironically - is that I don't really like women all that much. I think I married you because I felt pressured to. Don't get me wrong, I love you. I do. That was never fake. But you're probably the only woman I could ever really feel that way for. There was a woman at the home for a bit, her name was Leanne, but I think she just reminded me of you. If it had been a different time, if I had been a different person...I think I'd have been like Polly. To watch Ellen be herself, that feels somewhat vindicating. Talk about living vicariously, right?"

Lorraine laughed and nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. She didn't need to say anything in response, and he didn't need to say anything more. They had known one another for slong that they understood eachother, often better than they understood themselves. In the end, all Boris wanted was to be a better man for the women he had hurt, and he felt like he'd finally accomplished that. After the visit, Boris climbed into Polly's gremlin and scratched off the next item on his list. Make peace with his wife. Something he'd done a while ago, but something he felt was truly finished now.

Onto the next item on the list.

                                                                                                        ***

Father Krickett was sitting in his office with his legs up on the desk when the door opened and Boris entered. John smiled and waved at him as Boris put his hands in his pockets and paced around the room, admiring it. He had only visited John's office a few times before, so it was still somewhat new to him.

"That's not very professional of you," he said, pointing towards John's legs.

"Well, to be fair, I don't really work in a business where professionalism is highly sought after," John remarked, "I mean, who's my boss? God. You think he's gonna fire me for being a little too relaxed in the office?"

Boris chuckled and pulled a seat over to the desk, sitting down.

"What're you doing here anyway?" John asked.

"I've been going through the day scratching things off a bucket list. Went and saw my daughter, went and saw my wife. Figure I should come see you next. See what you've been up to today, besides casually lounging on Gods furniture."

"Just cause it's in his house doesn't make it his furniture. I paid for it," John said, smirking, lifting his drink to his lips; after finishing, he set his mug back down on the table and asked, "so, what's it been like, wrapping up unfinished business? Or is that just something ghosts have?"

"Wouldn't know, not a ghost, but when I am, I'll ask one and let you know," Boris said, "either way it's been...interesting. It's...it's kind of hard to reconcile your mortality when it's not directly in your face, and when you're doing things that spit in its presence. I'm out here, living life, giving my time to others, instead of preparing to be six feet under. I think death finds that somewhat insulting, despite knowing he'll get me in the end."

John nodded, chewing on the end of his pen. He then pulled his legs off the desk and sat upright, leaning forward a bit.

"You don't think, perhaps, this bucket list is just a way to avoid the things you don't want to actually face? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm proud of you for facing up to other truths that may be uncomfortable, but...maybe you should focus on what's coming up. All you've done today so far for this list, it seems like, is be there for others. Why not be there for yourself?"

Boris sighed and crossed his legs, looking up at a nearby stained glass window of a beautiful female angel in a robe.

"I, uh...I don't know that I can," Boris said, his voice cracking, as he sniffled, "I don't know that I can openly acknowledge it further than I already have. I don't want to think about it."

"It's gonna happen whether you wanna think about it or not," John said, shrugging, "Boris, think about it like this. I know you're not a God fearing man, but just allow me the chance to propose this to you, even as a hypothetical. We're mean to worship God, right? Praise him, love him, accept him into our hearts? Our salvation, as they put it. But we're also told that we're made in God's image. If that's the case, there's nothing wrong loving ourselves, because we're part of God. We can be our own salvation at the same time. We just...we just need to allow ourselves the chance."

Boris looked down at the floor, now crying. John was taken aback, he hadn't expected Boris to come into his office unannounced, much less break down. Boris buried his face in his hands and exhaled, as he spoke between sobs.

"It isn't fair," Boris said.

"What isn't fair?" John asked, getting up from his chair and walking around to the front of the desk, sitting on it in front of Boris now; he continued, "what? To have you die like this?"

"To have me live like this," Boris mumbled, "to...to go through an entire lifetime and never once be satisfied. That isn't to insinuate that I'm not happy with having helped make my daughter, or the friendships I've forged, but...everything...everything I've ever done has been for the benefit of others, and while that's not a bad thing necessarily, it also...it isn't fair. I never got to be me. Born at the wrong place in the wrong time. You're young, you have the chance. Ellen is young, she has a chance. But me...people from my generation...we weren't really given the chance. We missed the boat by a handful of years. And while some managed to live their truths brazenly, flying in the face of societal heternormativity, like Polly, most of us were simply too scared to do the same."

John nodded, listening, his hands cupped in his lap, his heart breaking.

"So right now, all I want to do is finish my bucket list," Boris said, finally looking up at John, his old, weathered face stained with tears, adding, "and just say that, of all the people I've ever met, have ever known, none have done so good for my soul as you. And not because you're a priest. But simply because you're a man like me. And I don't mean that in a masculinity sense. I mean-"

"I know what you mean, Boris," John whispered, reaching out and holding the old mans hands in his, massaging gently, "I know what you mean, it's okay."

Boris leaned in and buried his face in John's chest, as John held him and stroked his back. They sat there in the priests office, two men, separated by a generation but brought together by sexuality. John nodded, thinking about it. It wasn't fair, he wasn't wrong. And just as much as Boris didn't want to die, John didn't want him to die either. Neither one wanted to face the inevitable eventuality that was rearing its ugly head, soon to descend upon them in full force. But right now they had this. Right now they had love. And that was comfort enough.

                                                                                                         ***

Carol was sitting at her desk, still finishing up paperwork. It was almost 11pm now, and she had hoped to be done a few hours ago. She grumbled, frustrated, and finished one page, then flipped to a new one when her office door and Boris entered. She checked her watch and then set her pen down.

"What are you doing here? It's so late," Carol said.

Boris shut the door behind him and approached the desk.

"Boris?" Carol asked.

"...thank you," Boris whispered, sniffling, "thanks for the bucket list ideas. Thank you for forcing me to do something. Are you still working?"

"Yeah, a lot of insurance paperwork for various things," Carol said.

"Can I just...stay here, until you're done?" Boris asked, "frankly, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

Carol smiled and nodded. Boris pulled a chair to the opposite side of the desk and sat down as Carol picked up her pen and continued. Boris pulled his hat off and set it in his lap.

"I love you, Carol," Boris said.

"I love you too, Boris," Carol replied.

Wyatt was in the kitchen, making breakfast for Mona, Scarlett taking care of their son upstairs. Mona was seated at the table, reading a small chapter book while Wyatt stood at the stove, cooking pancakes. To Wyatt, this was heaven. There was nowhere he'd rather be than here, at home, making breakfast for his daughter. He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled to himself. Mona represented everything right he'd done in life, the culmination of a million small, good decisions.

"If these animals can talk, why can't people understand them?" Mona asked.

"What are you reading?" Wyatt asked.

"Charlotte's Web," Mona said, "and the animals all talk to one another, but none of the humans ever overhear them or understand them? Are they speaking a secret animal language?"

Wyatt laughed as he flipped the pancakes onto a plate and walked them towards the table, setting them in front of her.

"I don't know, but that's good that you're asking the important questions when it comes to childrens literature," he said. He sat down, coffee mug in his free hand, as he watched Mona bookmark her spot in her book, then pour syrup onto her pancakes and start to eat. Wyatt didn't have any plans for the day. He wasn't going into the office, he wasn't meeting with anyone, and all he really intended to do was spend the entire day here, at home, with his family. Scarlett entered, their son on her hip, and kissed the top of Wyatt's head as she passed by and headed to the fridge for a bottle. Just then there was a knock at the front door and Wyatt, sighing and rolling his eyes, stood up to go answer it. As he tugged the front door open, there, in a charcoal grey three piece suit with a trilby atop his head, stood an orange haired man.

"Hello," the man said brightly, "hi, I'm Ricky Loach."

Ricky held his arm out and Wyatt hesitantly shook his hand as he lifted his coffee mug to his lips and took a sip.

"What can I do for you, Ricky?" Wyatt asked.

"Oh, well, uh," Ricky said, "I'm, I'm actually here on behalf of the Loggins Aircraft Company. I'm doing some legwork for them in regards to the recent crash. It says here you're friends with the only survivor, one Kelly Schuester. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions regarding Miss Schuester?"

And that was when Wyatt knew his free day was gone.

                                                                                                         ***

Calvin was in his shed with Rachel. Calvin was standing over the workdesk and soldering something while Rachel sat away, with her own pair of goggles on just in case, while she ate from an enormous open bag of chips. The radio was on full blast, and neither one was interested in having a conversation, instead opting to happily just be there in silence, enjoying eachothers company. Just then the door to the shed was knocked loudly, and Calvin sighed. He stopped soldering, put down the gun and headed to the door, opening it, only to find Wyatt standing there.

"Hey," Calvin said, "what are you-"

"Do you have any idea how much you've fucked us, cause it's a lot," Wyatt said, entering and then noticing the goggles before asking, "...did I interrupt some kind of steampunk convention?"

"Just doing some metalwork," Calvin said, "it's relaxing."

"It's surprisingly fun to watch," Rachel said, "it's like watching those shows on TV where people drive trucks for a living. This is someone's job, how wild is that? People get up and actually DO things on a day to day basis. Wild."

"What's going on?" Calvin asked.

"An airline investigator came to my house this morning," Wyatt said, "asking about Kelly. Asking about my relationship to Kelly. Because now they're uncovering pieces of the bomb from her bag and painting her as an accountable party. The bomb YOU built and stuffed in there."

An uncomfortable silence filled the shed.

"...yeah," Calvin said quietly, "yeah, I was worried this might happen. So what did you say?"

"What could I say? I just said I knew Kelly from highschool, and otherwise I don't know her well at all. Just that she's a friend of a friend, which means-" Wyatt said, pointing towards Rachel now, who had pulled her goggles up on her forehead, adding, "he's gonna come to you next. Right now our biggest priority is to ensure that Kelly doesn't get pinned for this. She didn't do anything wrong. She was just trying to do her job."

"I think we'd better have a lawyer present," Rachel said, and Wyatt knew just who to call.

                                                                                                        ***

"So," Ricky said, sitting on Wyatt's couch, Wyatt in a lounge chair across from him, still drinking his coffee; Ricky pulled his hat off and set it beside him, continuing, "what is your relationship to Miss Schuester?"

"Not much of one, really," Wyatt said.

"Says you were one of the first ones at the hospital to see her. Doesn't sound like not much of one," Ricky replied.

"Well, she's a friend of a friend from highschool, I more went to support my friend, you know? Be comfort for her. But as far as Kelly and I are concerned, we'd met maybe twice? Three times total? I'm not saying we don't know eachother, but we know eachother about as well as, say, someone who lives in a dorm with another student. We're cordial, but otherwise, yeah."

Ricky laughed as he wrote something down on a piece of paper.

"That's fair," he said, "I remember being in college and never talking to my dormmate. They were just kinda there, you know? So you don't know Miss Schuester well, okay, but can I ask you about some of your interactions with her? Maybe, perhaps, of what your impression of her might be? She's a local weather girl, as you obviously know, but did she ever come across as, say...an impassioned fighter for nature? A sort of ecorights warrior?"

Wyatt laughed into his coffee, fighting back the urge to cackle like an idiot and do a full on spit take.

"Sorry, sorry," Wyatt said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, "I'm sorry, that's just...that's so stupid. What would...like...why would you even think that?"

"Because we found shrapnel and other pieces of what appear to be part of a homemade explosive in her luggage," Ricky said, and Wyatt felt his heart drop in his chest; Ricky continued, "she's on a plane full of people people fighting for the environment, under the name of a monster, and perhaps she had motive to stop them."

"But if she were a part of that belief system, why would she blow anyone up? Let alone I doubt she knows how to make a bomb," Wyatt said, "woman can barely use a knife and fork properly."

"Maybe she disagreed with the way they were going about things, or maybe she hated who they followed," Ricky said, shrugging, "listen, it's no secret that Oliver Bloom was a horrible person, and the fact that they chose to ignore that aspect of him in favor of worshipping his 'message' to save the planet is, between you and I, kinda fuckin' gross. Maybe she felt the same way."

Wyatt set his mug down on the coffee table beside him and sighed, crossing his legs.

"Listen," Wyatt said, "I've met Kelly like three, maybe four times total. So sure, I don't know her that well and maybe I don't know what she could possibly be capable of. Plenty of people lead double or even triple lives. But between you and me, from what little knowledge about her I've accrued, she doesn't strike me as the kind of person to do such a thing. As for finding pieces of an explosive device, yeah, that looks bad, very suspicious, but I'm willing to bet if you asked her to rebuild it, she would't know the first thing about how to do so."

"Then how'd it get there?" Ricky asked, shrugging.

"...I...I don't know, I'm just spitballing here," Wyatt said, stammering, "all I'm saying is she's a fucking weather girl, man. And, just as an added bonus, why would she board a plane she intended to blow up? How would that help her cause? Kelly isn't responsible for such a thing."

Ricky nodded slowly, jotting some other things down in his legal pad before shutting it and looking at Wyatt sternly.

"Yes?" Wyatt asked.

"Can I ask you a question?" Ricky asked.

"You've already asked a bunch, so what's stopping you," Wyatt replied, picking his mug back up and continuing to drink.

"...from the phone records," Ricky said, "it said she called you from the airplane before it crashed."

"She did, and she sounded terrified," Wyatt said.

"Well, yeah, that's what I was gonna say," Ricky said, "the airline records all in flight outgoing calls for posterity sake, and having heard it, yeah, she sounded legitimately, genuinely terrified. Which leads me to believe, personally, that you're right, and she had no clue that that thing was in her bag. Course I can't just present my ideas without evidence to back them up. If she didn't build it, put it in there, then who did? That's the question we're really after."

Wyatt nodded slowly, listening. He could turn Calvin in right now. He could pin Calvin for it, give him up for Grudin's death as well, and make this all go away, but...but he couldn't do that. He knew he couldn't. He wasn't that type of person. Besides, he was as partially responsible for Grudin's death as Calvin was, and he didn't want to risk going down himself for it. Wyatt sighed and shook his head.

"Guess you got a real mystery on your hands, don't you?" Wyatt asked, and Ricky smirked.

"Luckily for me," Ricky said, "I'm very good at solving puzzles."

                                                                                                       ***

"Okay, for the final time, I'm an ecological lawyer," Celia said.

She and Wyatt were standing just outside the shed, Calvin and Rachel inside talking amongst themselves. Celia had her arms crossed, looking clearly annoyed at having been called down here. Wyatt, his hands on his hips, didn't look too pleased himself to be dealing with this situation on what had previously been, just an hour before, his day off.

"The investigator says she might've been doing it for the sake of the environment, can't we spin that in a good way?" Wyatt asked, "I mean, here's the thing, I don't want Kelly to go down for this, she's totally innocent, but maybe Calvin would agree to take the hit, and we can say he's just...a nature lover. You're a defense lawyer fighting against big businesses hurting the planet, can't you do your magic?"

"First of all, to assume it's that easy is ridiculous, secondly, the kind of cases I work on are about paper companies overshooting on their estimations, not people blowing up planes to save the world from even nuttier nature preservationists, okay?"

Wyatt sighed and sat down on the wooden picnic bench in the backyard. Celia sat down beside him and put a hand on his back.

"Frankly," Celia said quietly, "I think, and this sucks to say but...I think she needs to know."

"She can't know," Wyatt said, chewing on his thumbnail, "she can never know. If she knew..."

"If she knew, she could more easily defend herself if anyone comes after her," Celia said, "but you said it yourself, even this investigator doesn't think she's remotely responsible. Right now they're running in circles with no real leads. The worst thing we can do for her is pretend we know nothing. Besides, she wouldn't hate you, you were unaware of what Calvin did, and you tried to beat the shit out of him for it afterwards."

Wyatt nodded, slowly realizing Celia was right. He was backed into a corner, and Kelly had to finally know. He sighed and looked at Celia, who just smiled warmly at him and pulled him into a hug. Wyatt cried on her shoulder while she rubbed his back, reassuring him he'd be okay.

"this was my day off," he whispered.

"Yeah, me too," Celia replied.

                                                                                                       ***

Ricky walked through the doorway and stopped on the front porch, turning back to face Wyatt.

"Yeah?" Wyatt asked, "anything else?"

"Just give me a call if you have any other ideas or information," Ricky said, handing Wyatt his card from his coat pocket, adding, "ya know, it's weird, people can be doing noble things, truthfully the right thing, morally, but if done in a way that's viewed as wrong, their entire purpose can be twisted. Suddenly what was seen as heroic is seen as monstrous. I'm all for saving the environment myself, but not at the expense of blowing people up, even if they were self proclaimed nutjobs."

"Morals are tricky," Wyatt said, "that's why so many polticians don't last long."

"Wyatt," Ricky said, smirking at his statement, "I'm just letting you know...I might not be the only one asking about this. There might be others coming forward. Insurance companies. Detectives. Whatever. Just know that I'm on your side, pal, I wanna help get the right person for this, not the wrong one. If you're gonna trust anyone, trust me, cause, if you don't...who knows what could happen."

Wyatt furrowed his brow and pocketed the card.

"Is that a threat?" Wyatt asked.

"More like a..." Ricky said, shrugging, "a warning, I guess. Have a good afternoon."

With that, Ricky Loach turned and walked off the front porch. Before he knew it, Wyatt was upstairs, getting dressed, and racing over to Calvin's. And now...now after being at Calvin's, he found himself heading somewhere else. It was time for Kelly to know the truth.

                                                                                                         ***

Kelly was laying on the couch, watching TV and eating pretzel sticks out of a large bowl when the front door opened. She watched as Wyatt came around the side of the wall and entered the living room, and she immediately perked up, muting the television as he sat down.

"You know, the front door is unlocked, any old weirdo could just come in here," he said.

"Any old weirdo did," Kelly replied, winking, making him smirk.

"Where are your folks?"

"At work," Kelly said, "what's up?"

Wyatt shifted uncomfortably in his seat and sighed.

"Kelly," he said, "...today I had someone from the airline come and meet with me. He asked me about you, about the plane crash. He said they founded pieces of an explosive device within your luggage. Thankfully he doesn't buy that you put it there, but..."

"...a bomb? There was a bomb in my shit?" Kelly asked, sounding surprised and scared simultaneously.

"Yeah," Wyatt nodded, "a bomb. A homemade bomb. And, uh...don't worry, I mean, I told him you obviously had nothing to do with it, you can barely work your oven, and like I said, he doesn't believe for one second you were remotely responsible for such a thing, but..."

Wyatt looked down at his feet as Kelly shifted, sitting upright as best she could, looking anxious.

"Wyatt?" she asked softly.

"We need to talk about Calvin," Wyatt said.

Everything came out from that point on. Grudin. The Evergreens. Brighton. Calvin's past and his obsession with bomb making. By the end of it all, Kelly was aghast, and Wyatt was sobbing, apologizing, but Kelly didn't blame him for one second. Kelly never would. She knew Wyatt now, she knew he was a good man and would never willingly hurt her, and if nothing else, she seemed grateful for having been told the truth. Wyatt promised her that she'd be protected, would never be blamed for anything, she was a total and complete innocent who, thanks to Calvin, had been roped into their nonsense, and Kelly felt appreciative to be kept safe.

"This is...ridiculous," Kelly muttered.

"Yeah, it's been a hell of a few months," Wyatt replied, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve, "but, ya know, I'm gonna do my best to continue to keep things together, make sure nothing gets any worse, and-"

"And what about Calvin?" Kelly asked, "he's clearly unhinged. If he blew up a plane, what will he do next?"

Wyatt had been asking himself that very question, just as had Rachel asked him as well the day of the crash. Just as Celia had once inquired the day they shredded those pictures and files down by the riverbank. Wyatt knew Calvin himself was a ticking timebomb, ready to go off and take everyone around him with him, and what do you do with bombs? How do you save those who don't deserve to be blown to smithereens?

You defuse them.

"Okay, if I'm gonna let you help me, meet my friends, you need to be normal," Wyatt said.

He was standing in Angie's bedroom. Her folks were gone for the day, and he told Calvin and Rachel they would come pick them up once he had his "supplier", though he didn't really know what he meant by that seeing as Angie wasn't even the one who had drugs, she just knew where they could be obtained. Angie tilted her head at him, a confused look on her face.

"Am I normally not?" she asked, sounding almost hurt.

"No, no, don't take it to mean that," Wyatt said, "no, I just mean, uh...you gotta be...ya know, socially acceptable."

"Oh, well, that's so different," Angie said, sneering. Wyatt sighed and sat down on her bed, scratching the back of his head.

"You just can't be going on about worship and stuff, you'll freak 'em out and Rachel's already on edge cause of her hallucinations and...and Calvin, that's a whole other can of worms altogether. That guy is always one light switch short of mass murder, it seems like," Wyatt said, running his face through his hands and sighing, adding, "You say you wanna help me, then help me. Please."

"What makes you even think I know where to look," Angie asked, crossing her legs as she sat in her desk chair.

"Because you were part of The Evergreens, and groups like that aren't going over the counter," Wyatt said, "you know someone downtown has some kind of hook up. We're not even looking for a technically illegal substance. Just antipsychotics. And knowing you...the issues you deal with..."

Angie grimaced, then sighed, nodding.

"Alright," she said, "I know where we can go."

                                                                                                         ***

Before joining the Evergreens, Angie was...well....it'd be a lie to say she was 'normal', but she was moderately plain at best. Despite her family's involvement, then exit, from a cult early in life, she lived a fairly ordinary childhood. She went to school, she had friends, she participated in after school activities. On the surface, Angie Dickenson seemed to be just your average everyday young lady. But nobody saw the things she saw in her head. They had no way of knowing just how sick she actually was. Because to look at her from afar, in her pretty dress with her femme appearance and her cheeerful demeanor, you'd never guess she saw things that weren't there, or heard things nobody else heard. You'd never guess she wasn't like you.

It really started in earnest when she was a teenager.

After spending a good chunk of her youth in the cult with her parents, and eventually leaving, she started to cling to the belief that she was destined for more, because, well, for all of her adolescence that was the line she'd been fed by their leader. When she started to hear a voice telling her how she could achieve 'more', she listened. She started harrassing other students at school, but never gave her parents shit. After a while, her folks knew they couldn't let this continue unchecked, so they got Angie into therapy, and on various medications and, for the most part, it all seemed to calm down. She wound up joining the Evergreens and then...and then she met Wyatt Bloom.

And it started all over again.

                                                                                                       ***

"How do you even know this girl?" Calvin asked, as he and Wyatt stood outside Wyatt's car, Angie in the front passenger seat, as they waited for Rachel to come down from her apartment.

"It's a long story," Wyatt said.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," Calvin replied.

"She was part of the Evergreens, but she left," Wyatt said, "since I apparently convinced her not to be involved with them, she didn't end up on the plane, and now she wants to thank me however she can. I guess finding street drugs is one way of helping me. Frankly, I don't want to be involved with her whatsoever, she creeps me the hell out, but..." Wyatt sighed and looked back up at the apartment building, adding, "...but Rachel needs help, and I want to help Rachel be okay."

Calvin smiled weakly. He was glad Wyatt did seem to genuinely care about Rachel, that they were in fact actual friends. She deserved that kind of support. Finally Rachel came out of the front doors of the apartment building and jogged up to them, looking anxious and nervy.

"You doin' okay, sport?" Wyatt asked, hitting her on the shoulder.

"What are you, my little league coach?" Rachel asked, making them both laugh; she added, "come on, let's just...let's just do this, yeah? I can't be like this for another day."

Rachel pulled open the back door to the car and climbed in as Calvin went around to the other side, also entering. Wyatt climbed back into the drivers side seat and started the car back up once everyone's seat belt was fastened. He exhaled, pulled away from the curb and started to drive towards an area of town they all often avoided, primarily because it was associated with the exact kind of activity they were attempting today. As they pulled into the street and immediately hit traffic, Wyatt sighed and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

"So you used to be on antipsychotics?" Rachel asked, leaning between the front seats, talking to Angie.

"I was, yeah," Angie replied, "and, well, maybe I still should be, but that's hard to determine."

"Well I really appreciate your help," Rachel said, "I don't have the kind of insurance or money that would cover medication, so, seriously...this...this means a lot."

Angie smiled. She was happy to help, after all it's what she'd been doing most of her life. Helping. Course, all Wyatt could think of with both Angie and Calvin together in the car is how Angie had no idea that the very man who nearly killed her was sitting right behind her. Wyatt rolled his window down, put his arm out and chewed on his lip.

"So," Calvin asked, "where are we going?"

A pause as Wyatt glanced at Angie and then sighed.

"Stonyham," Wyatt said.

                                                                                                    ***

Of all the people to know what Stonyham was, Wyatt was the last one you'd expect. Stonyham was a small suburb about 40 minutes away from where they lived, and was often the place where, in high school, teenagers would frequent for their obtaining of illicit narcotics and alcohol. The only reason Wyatt even knew what it was was because before meeting Scarlett, he and Amelia had gone up there to try and get something one weekend. It had been Amelia's idea, surprisingly enough, because she'd read in a book somewhere that eating mushrooms could make you hallucinate, and she wanted that vivid experience to help her come up with new ideas. Wyatt, being the supportive boyfriend he was, was on board, albeit hesitantly.

After finding out from another kid on his baseball team where exactly to get such a hookup, Wyatt and Amelia set aside their Saturday night and headed on up to Stonyham. Once they'd acquired the substance, they drove back down to their area - mostly for fear of being robbed while high up there - and parked in a secluded spot where nobody would bother them. They laid on the hood of the car and ate the mushrooms together, then watched the night sky overhead. Looking back on it years later, this would be one of the best memories from Wyatt's high school years, and in hindsight, it only made him feel even worse for how things with Amelia had gone down. Lying there, staring up at the stars above, Wyatt could feel Amelia lace her fingers in his and he smiled.

"What if the universe is just a falsehood, like a...a tulpa, cause we believe in it, so that makes it real, but it doesn't actually exist in a tangible sense?" Amelia asked.

"That's...that's a lot, right now," Wyatt replied, the both of them laughing.

"It just seems like too much is too perfect," Amelia continued, "like how the food cycle exists so circularly, like it was designed to be that way, when really it's just random happenstance."

"I don't wanna go home," Wyatt said suddenly, feeling clammy and anxious.

"Why?" Amelia asked.

"I'm scared of my dad," Wyatt whispered, rolling onto his side on the hood and looking at Amelia, who did the same. Wyatt looked at her, his eyes wide, like he was about to cry, "will you protect me?"

"I'll protect you," Amelia whispered, reaching out and touching his face gently, bringing to him a sense of calm.

Yes, this was the only time he'd ever openly admitted being scared of his father, and it was to the one girl he'd wind up hurting the most in his life. Wyatt regretted a lot of his actions, but the way he ended things with Amelia still topped the list, and he wasn't sure he'd ever get the chance to say sorry, or that she'd even accept his apology if he managed to. He didn't want to make that kind of mistake again. Perhaps that explained his patience with Angie, despite her clearly mentally unwell state of being, but all Wyatt really knew was that he trusted women far more than he trusted men, and so if Angie told him to go to Stonyham, he'd go to Stonyham, especially if it meant helping Rachel. After Amelia, Wyatt made a vow to himself to never hurt another woman again, and instead to do what he could to help them.

And he'd almost keep that promise.

                                                                                                        ***

"You ever think about the fact that your hair and nails keep growing after you die?" Rachel asked, looking at her hand, "that drives me insane. I have to not only be dead, but I also have to be unkempt?"

"Frankly I think between the two being dead is the worse part," Calvin said.

"They should have beauticians that come by and open up coffins for like the first year after death, keep you looking presentable, even if you're not being presented to anyone," Angie said, "it's just common courtesy."

"Guys, could you lighten up a bit, this is kinda grim," Wyatt said as he headed onto the small bridge that led into Stonyham, the others all chuckling at him. Rachel leaned back in her seat and admired her nails once more. Calvin looked out the window at the water below them and thought about how he and his sister used to go swimming up at their grandparents lake cabin, and how much he missed that. How much he missed her. Seemed he was always drawn to the water in one way or another, like when he'd shredded all those files with Wyatt and Celia.

"It's genuinely terrifying," Rachel said softly from the backseat, fidgeting with her hands, "knowing something isn't real, yet seeing it, and thus gaslighting yourself int believing it could be. You begin to question your own eyes and sense of reality. It warps everything, throws all of being into question. Some people can handle it, but...I'm not one of those people."

"Well, we're gonna get you fixed right up," Wyatt said, "don't worry, we'll find something for you."

Rachel smiled, feeling extremely lucky to have the kinds of friends she did. Had she known back in high school that one day Wyatt Bloom and Calvin Klepper would be assisting her in any way they could to help her mental faculties, she would've scoffed at the idea, and yet, now, here they were doing just that. Seemed preposterous. As they pulled into a small neighborhood, Angie patted Wyatt on the arm a few times, then motioned for him to pull over here, so he did. As the car came to a slow crawl and finally stopped, Angie looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt sighed, pulling out his wallet and handing her a wad of cash.

"Don't overspend," Wyatt said.

"It costs what it costs," Angie replied, "you don't haggle with drug dealers, that's how you wind up dead. Seeing as I've already skirted death by a hair once, I'm not looking to do it again."

With that, Angie exited the car, and Calvin, surprising the others, offered to go with her. Wyatt watched them exit into a building, and then he leaned back in his chair and sighed. Rachel climbed up into the front seat and pulled her knees up to her chest on the chair, resting her chin on them.

"You alright?" Wyatt asked.

"I don't know," Rachel said, shrugging, "I just wish my parents cared more. They just see all my problems as self imposed. People of that generation, anything that's wrong with someone is either made up or something of their own doing. My parents know I was almost sexually assaulted, they know I see things, but they just...don't care. They prefer to ignore them, because oh no, their perfect little girl might make them social pariahs if they acknowledge any of her faults."

"Do they know you're gay?" Wyatt asked, and Rachel shook her head, chuckling.

"Fuck no," she said, "god, could you imagine? Being mentally ill and queer? They'd outright disown me. My dad, once when I was back from college after the assault and after I'd started hallucinating, I overheard him say to my mom that watching me was like watching a slow motion car accident."

Wyatt felt bad for Rachel. It was clear she'd struggled to connect with her own family, and being someone who also struggled to connect with his, particularly his father, he knew that pain. His thoughts then turned to Mona. Hopefully he wasn't being that way with her. Hopefully he was doing things right. The last thing he wanted was for her to look back on her childhood and feel let down, and not because he'd feel like a failure, but because she'd be upset. He sighed and scratched his forehead.

"Having kids is easy," he said, "raising kids is hard. Anyone can have them, but raising them? Being nurturing? That's just something a lot of people think they have in them, but they don't. Not really. They think they can do it, but when it comes down to it, they can't. And it's fine, it's not for everyone, but what's the worst is when people have kids regardless of knowing they can't do it properly. Then they just...damage another person. You deserved a better family, Rachel, I'm so sorry."

Rachel looked at Wyatt, her face wet with tears, as she leaned in against him and rested her face on his chest, and he reached up and stroked her hair while she cried.

"Why don't they want me," she whimpered, and Wyatt shook his head.

"I don't know," Wyatt said, whispering back, "but we do. That has to count for something."

Rachel smiled and nodded, continuing to cry and hugging him. After a bit, Angie and Calvin returned, pills in hand. Angie returned what was left of Wyatt's money, and together, the group drove out of Stonyham. This was the last time Wyatt ever wanted to come here. Life was dangerous enough with spending it in a run down inner city suburb. By the time they got back to their part of town, Wyatt suggested they get dinner, and offered to pay. The four of them ate a family restaurant, and had a pretty good time doing so. Even Rachel, who just an hour before had been in a precariously emotional state, was having a great time with them, and Wyatt felt like, if she didn't have a good family, he'd have to be the next best thing.

She deserved that much.

                                                                                                       ***

After dropping everyone else off, Wyatt pulled up to Angie's parents place and parked. Angie gathered her small backpack and climbed out of the car, then leaned back in through the rolled down passenger window and looked at Wyatt, who looked back at her with uncertainty, unsure of what she wanted.

"...thanks for including me," Angie said, "it feels nice, to be a part of something again. After leaving the Evergreens, it felt like I didn't really have a purpose. I'm glad to be able to help."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," Wyatt said, "not to be rude, but I just don't foresee many instances where we'll require your specific kind of help. But, you know, if you want to just hang out with us, you're free to."

Angie felt her heart swell with joy, and she had to fight to hold back tears.

"You know," Angie said, "when I was little, my parents and I were in a cult."

"Seems to be a common occurance with you," Wyatt said, making her snort, laughing.

"Yeah, well," she said, "Some people just function better in a restrictive situation like that. Anyway, ever since that dissolved, I looked for another place to feel...needed. The Evergreens were great, but, you were right. I was following a martyr who didn't deserve matyrdom. I don't want to die for a cause I don't believe in, just because others are. But you, Wyatt, you're someone worth following. You would've made a great cult leader."

With that, Angie said goodnight, then headed inside, leaving Wyatt in his car, speechless. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and let his forehead hit the center of the wheel, beeping a soft honk.

"Dammit," he whispered.

The place hadn't really changed.

The exterior might be painted a different color, a more modern front porch and up to date windows, but overall, the house looked the exact same as the last time Boris had been here, which was...hell, he couldn't even recall. Had it really been that long, or was his memory just getting that bad that quickly? As he, John, Whittle and Jenn got out of the car and approached the house, Whittle taking the lead, Boris couldn't help but feel somewhat embarrassed. He didn't particularly want the others here, just John. Whittle knocked on the door, and a man in his early fourties opened it. He was wearing loafers, a light blue button down shirt and brown slacks. He smiled at her politely, as if he'd met her before.

"Hi," Whittle said, "I'm a hospice nurse, and this man," she motioned towards Boris coming up behind them, "is my patient, and he's...he's had a stroke, and he doesn't have much time left, and we were hoping to maybe get into the house to help him gain peace. See, this is where he grew up and-"

"Absolutely," the man said, happily stepping aside, allowing them all entrance. Boris was surprised. That had been far easier than he'd expected it to be. As the man stepped out of their way and the group entered, Boris immediately transported back in time, but...not in the way he wanted. He stumbled going over the threshold, and felt John stabilize him as they continued inside.

"Wow," Boris said, "this place looks almost identical."

"Yeah, we're big about keeping stuff true to form," the man said, "I'm Roger, by the way."

Roger held out his hand and everyone shook it gladly, just as another man entered from the kitchen, finishing drying a glass cup. Everyone turned to look at him.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Wallace, this is..." Roger said.

"Uh, I'm Father John Krickett, and this is Boris. He grew up here," John said, "we're just coming back for some closure before his death."

"Ah, well, welcome back then," Wallace said, smiling as he headed back into the kitchen.

"So, you've kept the interior original?" John asked, as he and Boris walked a bit away further into the house with Roger.

"Well, we've had to open things up to modernize, you know, fix plumbing, electrical, but otherwise yeah," Roger said, putting his hands in his pants pockets as they headed into the hallway, "it's basically the same house as it was when you lived here, more or less."

Boris could hear them talking, but he wasn't really listening. All his focus was being pulled towards his old bedroom. He stopped in the hallway and stared at the door, before reaching out and putting his hand on the knob and turning it slowly. The door opened, and Boris reached inside the room, feeling around on the wall for a light switch. Once flicked, the room flooded with light, and Boris had to squint momentarily in order to see. It looked exactly the same, except for the furniture. Boris stepped inside and stood in the middle of the room, before noticing Jenn was standing beside him.

"Does it make you nostalgic?" she asked, "Sometimes when I visit my parents, I go to my old bedroom, it makes me nostalgic, wanting to be young again."

"You are young," Boris replied, smirking, "but no, not particularly. I wouldn't give up my age for another shot at life. What's done is done. It's written in the history books now. My time here is over. It's just nice to see it again. Makes life feel very circular."

John entered, as Jenn backed out with Whittle, conversing with the men who owned the home. Boris reached back and shut the door, as if wanting privacy. He then approached the desk in the room and reached out, touching it, as John walked towards the bed and sat down, glancing around the room with some regularity.

"It all feels so distant and yet so recent," Boris whispered, his fingers on the vintage oak desktop, "...a whole other lifetime ago, but...but it doesn't feel like that. Isn't that strange? An entire life condensed to a few memories, feeling less like years and more like seconds? They say you blink and you miss it. That it all goes so fast. Doesn't feel fast when it's happening, but then...then you reach the end and you wonder where it all went."

John crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap, listening as Boris walked to the window and felt the curtains.

"I can remember being a young boy in this room," Boris continued, "reading, listening to the radio, writing poetry. Never ocurred to me then that I might leave it someday, never to return. But...I guess that's what life is, right? Loss? Acceptance of that loss?"

"I don't think that's true," John said, "I think life is about many things. Certainly loss is one of them, but it isn't the primary. A range of emotions is necessary, not just honing in on one in particular. If you only focus on one, you're not fully living life to its capacity."

Boris nodded, listening, but not responding. He could remember being a young boy, spending long summer days in this room, reading or writing or listening to the radio. He could almost envision it so clearly and he was amazed at how vivid the imagery of something from so long ago could still be in his head, as if it had just happened yesterday. Finally he turned back, leaning against the desk for support, and looking at John.

"It's only natural to want to see the beginning at the end," John said, shrugging.

"What if there is no beginning or end? What if there's just one line line that never starts or finishes? That's how time works anyway, right? And we're all just living on times watch, so...my life is merely a portion of that. My life isn't significant enough to warrant its own timeline, its own start or completion. It's nothing more than a millisecond in an eternity. Ridding yourself of a beginning and end...that opens you up to a whole new world of thinking, like...maybe, in some way, you're immortal."

"The only person who's immortal is God," John said, smirking, and Boris chuckled.

"So far," Boris replied.

Out in the kitchen, Jenn and Whittle were seated with Roger, eating crackers, while Wallace continued to do the dishes. Jenn was looking around the kitchen and taking it all in. Modernity housed in age. A beautiful, simplistic thing. She sighed. This was what she wanted. She didn't mind giving part of her life to the church, helping others find their path and keeping them on track, but...she wanted this. She wanted the home, in the suburb, with Whittle. She was just scared to find out if it was something Whittle wanted too.

"You guys did a spectacular job," Whittle said, crossing her legs as she sat in her chair, "like, seriously, this place is gorgeous."

"Well, we both grew up in cities, and wanted something a little more cozy than that, especially if we wanna have a family at some point," Roger said, cutting some cheese and placing it onto a cracker before eating it and adding, "don't get me wrong, a city can be a great place for a child to grow up too, exposing them to people and viewpoints they might be shielded from elsewhere, but we have a very specific lifestyle in mind."

Jenn smiled and nodded, before clearing her throat.

"Do you..." she started, "...how did you..."

She looked towards Whittle, their eyes meeting, and Jenn got nervous, stopped speaking and excused herself, much to Whittle's confusion. Jenn stepped outside into the backyard and took in a few deep breaths. She wanted her future now, not later. But moving too fast ran the risk of scaring people off, and she didn't want to scare Whittle off. She saw a beautiful rose garden in the backyard, with a koi fountain as a centerpiece, and approached it. She knelt down and dripped her fingertips in the water, giggling as the fish came up and nibbled at them weakly. Whether it was love or it was comfort from religion, she knew the things she wanted...she just didn't know how to get them.

Back in the bedroom, Boris, now seated on the bed beside John, looked at his hands in his lap and sighed.

"My whole life," Boris said, "I was running away from things that I didn't know how to handle. Only too late before I learned how to deal with them, too late to deal with them, and in the end it feels like because of that, perhaps I haven't lived at all. You're lucky, John, you discovered what you wanted early on and you went for it. It might've been driven by tragedy, but you did the opposite of me, you ran towards it, not away from it. I shielded myself. You opened yourself. That's the inherent difference between us."

"That's one inherent difference, certainly, but don't speak on my behalf as if my tragedy was any less traumatic," John retorted, "because, God knows, it wasn't. I lost the man that I loved, and I had nobody to blame but myself for it. Others turn to blame God, I turned to God for forgiveness. I accepted the fault, and asked God to show me how to go on. Does that make me stronger? That's not really for me to say. Others opinions mean more than my own in regards to my actions. I'm the last person who should ever be able to accurately judge the things I do. But it did give me strength, wisdom, perspective. Experience, even if it comes from the worst things, is still experience, and it can be shared to help others."

"I wonder what I would've been like," Boris said, "had I given in. Had I...had I not run."

John shifted and looked at Boris, confused. Boris sighed and reached up, rubbing his eyes, groaning.

"I always knew I wasn't like every other man around me," Boris said, "I always knew that, inside, there were differences. Most of the men I grew up around were tough, were strong, were upfront with their masculinity. I hid mine. I receded into myself because I knew I didn't have the same things they did. I didn't care about sports, I didn't care about sleeping around, I cared about poetry. I cared about..."

A moment, Boris paused, and slowly exhaled.

"I cared about David Morgan," Boris finished, and this got John's attention.

"Who is David Morgan?" John asked.

"David Morgan was a boy who grew up a few blocks away from me," Boris said, "we went to the same school, and we became friends. David was also not like your other typical boys, we shared a lot of the same interests, scholarly pursuits, hence why the friendship blossomed as well as it did. We used to ride our bikes to the library and try to find unknown poets, discover new writing together, and sometimes we even wrote poetry together. He liked painting, so I tried my hand at it, and we took painting classes downtown at a local gallery. I was never very good, but David was great. He gave me a painting for my birthday one year, and I still have it. I gave him poetry, and he loved it. It was a friendship built on mutual respect for the arts, and for our differences that set us apart from the others, but gave us hope with eachother."

"That's really beautiful, Boris," John said, smiling.

"And then David met a woman," Boris said, "our first year of college. He met this woman named Patricia, and she was nice, she was a lovely person. They too shared similar interests. But I...I couldn't bring myself to let anyone else have him, especially not in the ways that we had shared for so long. It felt like being replaced. So I repressed my anger, my resentment, and instead I tried to date as well. It never went very well, but...I tried. But every single time I would be out with some new girl, even if we did get along which we often would at least to some extent or another, the whole time I was thinking to myself 'I could be having this conversation with David'. That scared me. I was from a generation that wasn't supposed to accept that. So I didn't. I kept it away and..."

Boris sniffled, tears forming in his eyes, his voice cracking. John reached out and put his hand on Boris's back.

"...and after a while, I just sort of managed to ignore it best I could," Boris said, "met my wife, had a child, had a life. An entire life, being someone I wasn't. And I managed to stay that way, that hidden, until I met you. You fucking ruined everything."

"My bad," John said playfully, shrugging,  both men chuckling.

"These men who now own my childhood home together," Boris said, still crying, "they...they probably do realize it, but it's easier for me if I believe that they don't realize how good they have it. How lucky they are to be able to be who they are and do what they do. I wasn't given that option. So I hope they appreciate it, as I'm sure they do. Another time...another place...had we been the same age...this could've been us."

John's heart dropped, and he now felt like he wanted to cry too. He knew that in a few short months, maybe less, the man sitting beside him would be dead, and once again, a man he loved would exit his life. John looked down at his shoes and sighed softly, trying not to cry, when he felt Boris take his hand in his own and squeeze it gently, and then John had no chance. The tears came. Quietly, but they came.

"In all my years of earnestness, I've been blessed with the ability, to quietly manage to finesse, a sense of true senility. Always acting like a fool, pretend I don't see what is around me, my false dementia is a tool, that continues to ground me. I can live with the acknowledgement that nothing else may be true, but the one thing I have to acknowledge is how I feel for you."

John looked up at Boris, who was still looking out at the room.

"That was the poem I gave him," Boris said, "and he never gave any inclination that he truly understood the subtext, but I like to think he did. I like to think we both felt the same way, if only because unrequited love is so very tragic. It was his poem, but I'm giving it to you now."

Boris finally turned his head and looked at John, the two staring at one another for what felt like minutes. Neither saying a word, both barely breathing, as if to live would ruin the moment. John then hugged Boris tightly, and Boris laughed, hugging him back, patting him on the back. Boris looked around the room while they hugged, and he smiled. His time might be over...but this house still had so much left to see.

Meanwhile, out in the garden, Jenn, who was now sitting on the edge of the pond, her fingertips trailing gently at its surface, heard the screen door shut and looked up to see Whittle approaching. Whittle sat down as well and sighed as she finished the last cracker she'd brought with her from the kitchen.

"We should probably get going soon," Whittle said, "give these guys their house back for the day."

"Would you want this?" Jenn asked, surprising even herself with her sudden question, "...with me?"

Whittle smiled and put her hand on Jenn's knee, causing her to blush.

"Someday," Whittle said, "that sounds nice. Once Boris is gone, I certainly won't want to live in the apartment anymore, between Chrissy and him, it'll just be full of sad memories. I think I'd like to stay in the city for a while still. But someday, definitely. I'd love to own a home, be able to say I have my own place."

Whittle then put her hands on Jenn's shoulders, causing Jenn to look at her.

"...and there's nobody else I'd wanna do that with than you," Whittle finished, leaning in and kissing her. Roger and Wallace watched from the windows, smiling to themselves. This house was a safe place, because they'd made it that way, and they were happy to share that safety with those like them who needed it. The world was such a wreck, it only made sense to give comfort where they could to those who required. After all, what even was life without helping others?

That's what drove John and Jenn to the church, after all.

Rachel woke up and licked her lips. She needed a glass of water. She slowly climbed out of bed and headed quietly down the hallway, heading to the stairs to get downstairs to get a drink. She walked quietly so as not to wake her parents. Rachel put her hand on the stairway bannister and gripped firmly, walking softly down the stairs. With her free hand, she reached up and rubbed her eyes, yawning. Suddenly, through the blurriness of her sight, she saw it at the bottom of the stairs. It was standing there, its skin clear, translucent, its organs visible. Rachel screamed and stumbled, falling down the remainder of the stairs.

Soon Rachels parents arrived to help her up, and make sure she was okay. Her mother escorted her back to her bedroom, while her father went and got her a glass of water. Once Rachel had finished drinking it, she apologized to them both for waking them up, and they continued to reassure her that it was okay, and they were just happy she was okay. Rachel said goodnight to her parents, and laid back down to sleep as her parents left her bedroom. Lying in the dark, terrified she'd see it again, Rachel instead tried to think about something - anything - else. After a while, her mind settled on a girl she'd met at art camp that summer. She shut her eyes and imagined talking to her, trying to ease herself back into a restful sleep by daydreaming about her. It seemed to work, because in about fifteen minutes, Rachel was asleep again.

Now, as an adult, Rachel awoke and rolled over in bed, seeing Sun Rai asleep beside her. Rachel smiled and nuzzled up to her, pushing her face against Sun's neck. Sun smiled and ran her hand up into Rachel's hair, stroking it gently. At least now, even if she was seeing the horse again, Rachel had someone who could truly help her, and that made her feel much safer. She couldn't imagine being without her now, she'd become such a source of comfort. Rachel opened her eyes and spied the horse, standing behind Sun Rai, and quickly shut her eyes again. She'd do what she'd been taught. Ignore it. But it was hard to ignore things that refused to be ignored.

Rachel conceded that she finally needed help.

                                                                                                          ***

"Alright," Wyatt said, squirting mustard onto his burger, "here's how this is gonna go. I'm not someone to worship."

Wyatt had invited Angie to lunch, to try and dissuade her from following him. He'd even offered to buy her lunch.

"I'm just a dude, alright, I'm not...I'm not some kind of seer or all seeing knowledgable diety, I'm just some guy who happened to, coincidentally, give you some good advice that then happened to, coincidentally, save your life. And while I understand you're grateful for that, it doesn't warrant worshipping me," Wyatt said, taking a bite of his burger, speaking while chewing, "because quite frankly, and you can even confirm this with my wife, I'm nothing special."

"I know you don't have powers," Angie said, chuckling, "I'm not crazy, Wyatt."

Wyatt scoffed. That was a rich one.

"But that isn't what it's about," Angie said, "you did something amazing. You pulled me out of a cult, and you kept me from dying for an unjust martyr. I have to repay you somehow."

"Repay me by not stalking me, how's that sound?" Wyatt asked, and Angie laughed as she picked up her own burger and beginning to eat. How could he possibly get through to this girl that this wasn't acceptable behavior? His only real chance was going to the police about her, but, given his activities, he didn't really feel like getting involved with law enforcement. Wyatt sighed and set his burger down, scratching his forehead. He finally said, "okay, Angie, I'm going to pay you, okay? How's that sound? You want some money?"

"Money?"

"Yes. One thousand dollars to leave me the hell alone, how's that sound? Usually the worshipped is the one asking for money, but in this instance, I'm giving it to you, so maybe you can see how much better I am," Wyatt said, pulling out his checkbook and a pen, "so I'm going to write you this check for a thousand dollars, and you do whatever you want with it. Go to therapy, go to school, I don't care, just...stop following me and leave my family alone."

"Wyatt, what kind of maniac do you take me for?" Angie asked, sounding genuinely hurt, "...I don't want to hurt you, or your family. I just want to repay the favor. Be of any kind of help that I can."

Wyatt stopped writing the check and then set his pen down. He knew he couldn't actually pay Angie off without Scarlet wondering where the money had gone to. He sighed and ran one hand up through his hair, feeling backed into a corner without any options. What move could he make here, realistically?

"I...I appreciate that, but I really don't need any help," Wyatt said.

"If you do, you know I'll be there," Angie said.

Wyatt smiled weakly. All creepiness aside, it was one of the more enjoyable lunches he'd had lately, and that surprised him most of all.

                                                                                                         ***

Calvin opened the shed door, only to find Rachel standing there.

"My parents told you I was out here?" he asked, stepping aside and letting her come in.

"Yeah, they didn't seem all that surprised that you had a visitor," Rachel replied, stepping into the shed. She handed Calvin a bag of chips she'd brought with her, and he laughed as he took them and pulled them open.

"It's not a potluck, you're not expected to bring something everytime you come over," he said, chuckling.

"Felt natural," Rachel said, shrugging, leaning against his worktable and adding, "...um...I need some help. You have a sister, right? A sister with some mental health problems?"

"Yeah, why?" Calvin asked, pouring the chips into a large plastic bowl and setting it on the table.

"...how severe are her issues?" Rachel asked.

"Depends," Calvin said, "Depends on whether or not she's taking her medication, whether or not she's in therapy, those sorts of things. Some days it seems manageable, other days it's not at all. It's really a day by day basis type situation. Why?"

"I...when I was eleven," Rachel said, exhaling slowly, her hands trembling, "I was very heavily involved in horseback. Used to take lessons, used to do performances, it was such an upperclass white girl thing. It's one of the reasons Kelly and I became such good friends, was because of this shared interest. Anyway, one year, I was on this horseback trail with another girl and our instructor. Anyway, we stopped riding for a few minutes, ya know, give the horses a break and maybe have a snack, and the other girl, Amy, she went to get something from her bag and..."

Calvin picked out a few chips and ate them, waiting for Rachel to continue, only to notice the tears starting to roll down her face. Rachel reached up and wiped them with her sweatshirt sleeve, exhaling, her voice shaky.

"...and as she was passing back towards me to give me what I'd asked for, my horse kicked her," Rachel said, hers and Calvins eyes locking as she added, quietly, "...in the head."

"Jesus."

"Yeah," Rachel said, hopping up onto the worktable and crossing her legs, "yeah, it was...not good. Gruesome. We obviously had to end the ride right then and there and get her back to help, but we were so far from the ranch that it took us over an hour to get back, and by the time we did, there wasn't much they could do to salvage the situation. She incurred tremendous brain damage. She wasn't the same person anymore. She didn't even know who she was. I've always felt so responsible, and it was shortly after that that the hallucinations started."

"Why is it see through?" Calvin asked, and Rachel shrugged.

"Far be it from me to make sense of my mental instabilities and give you satisfying answers," she replied, "all I know is that it's started again, and I need to do something about it. I need help, Calvin. I was hoping you might be able to help me."

Calvin nodded, listening. After all the wrong he had done, he figured he owed it to Rachel to try and do right instead. He didn't know how he could manage it, but he would help her get on medication. Calvin walked around the table to the front of her and hugged her. Rachel cried against his shoulder as he rubbed her back.

"You're alright," he said softly, "we'll figure this out."

                                                                                                        ***

"You're in some deep shit," Celia said, as Wyatt paced in his office while she ate her sandwich.

"Thanks, I wasn't aware of that," Wyatt said, making her laugh; he quickly added, "I...I don't know what to do, or if I even should do anything. I mean, she doesn't seem to pose an immediate threat, but at the same time, I can't have some young woman following me around begging to do things for me."

"Are you sure you're a man?" Celia asked, and Wyatt smirked as he sat on his desk and lit a cigar.

"Everything just keeps going from bad to worse," Wyatt said, "there's virtually no way to guarantee she won't fly off her handle and do something wild. I know she said she just wants to help me if she can, but...but what if I keep insisting I don't need her help, and then she decides to turn against me as a result?"

"You're putting way too much thought into this," Celia said, setting her sandwich down and picking up her drink; after she took a long sip, she burped and said, "just face it as it is. She's some of weird devoted fangirl, she's not going to turn on you. Have her do simple errands just to keep her satisfied if you're so worried. Otherwise just ignore it."

Wyatt took a long puff from his cigar and sighed. He couldn't believe this. All of this stemmed from one decision...Robert Grudin. Had he never involved himself with that, had he never involved himself with Calvin, none of this would've happened. Course, he might not know Celia and Rachel and Kelly as a result, and he definitely didn't want to miss out on those friendships, even in spite of the danger Calvin invited into his life. Wyatt took another long puff, then stubbed it out in the ashtray.

"Maybe you're right," Wyatt said, "it's a good thing you're so level headed, you often keep me grounded, and I appreciate that."

"Well, there's a reason I'm a lawyer," Celia said, shrugging.

"Yeah, for trees," Wyatt muttered.

"Hey, trees need representation," Celia said, the both of them laughing.

Truth be told, Wyatt meant every word he said. Celia was the closest thing he had to a normal friend, and greatly appreciated her down to earth approach to various problems and issues. She often kept him on his feet, and that made him feel safer, even in the most dangerous situations. Wyatt really didn't know where he'd be without her input.

"And if she really does wanna do things for you," Celia said, "send her my way. I'll give her some stuff to do. My garage could use some cleaning."

"I'm not going to use my worshippers for slave labor," Wyatt said.

"Jeez, what kind of God are you?" Celia asked, the both of them laughing.

                                                                                                            ***

"Do they have you on heavy medication?" Rachel asked, sitting on Kelly's bedside, both of them looking through old National Geographic magazines.

"Kinda? I have stuff I have to take for pain now and then," Kelly said, "but that's only when it gets to be too insufferable. Wish I could do that for everything else that's insufferable. Oh, some creep is hitting on me, just pop a Jerk-B-Gone and be free of that headache in an instant."

Rachel laughed and nodded, agreeing. She knew coming to see Kelly would cheer her up. Her time with Calvin had been good, necessary, but being with her actual best friend was a real pick me up, emotionally.

"Are you able to bathe, or do your parents have to give you sponge baths?" Rachel asked.

"Okay, we're not talking about this anymore," Kelly replied, turning the page in her magazine, asking, "what possible reason could you have to even know? You plan on surviving a plane crash too?"

"Not particularly, unless you recommend it," Rachel said.

"Eh, it's got a kind of thrill to it," Kelly shrugged.

Rachel looked up from her magazine and around the room. Truthfully, though she wouldn't tell Kelly this, she was trying to eke out any kind of information she might have in regards to the medication she had lying around, knowing full well none of it would actually do what she needed it to do, but she didn't know where else to go. Rachel sighed and went back to looking at her magazine as Kelly reached for the glass on her bedside table.

"Maybe when I'm better, I'll go into the street drug trade," Kelly said, "supplement my weather girl income by selling whatever pain medication I have leftover."

And that's when Rachel got the idea.

                                                                                                        ***

Wyatt pulled up in his driveway and shut his car off. He reached for his briefcase on the passenger seat, gripping the handle, and opened his door, climbing out of the car. Once he was standing in the driveway, he heard the sound of something falling to the ground and glanced downwards, only to notice he'd dropped his car keys. He sighed, annoyed, before bending down to retrieve them.

"We need some help," Calvin said from behind, scaring him. Wyatt, just as he'd done with Angie the night before, leapt upwards, hand to his chest.

"Everyone needs to stop doing that to me!" he shouted.

"Wyatt, this is serious," Calvin said. Wyatt looked past Calvin, spying Rachel in Calvin's car, and he furrowed his brow.

"What's this about?" Wyatt asked.

"Rachel needs help," Calvin said, "she needs serious antipsychotics. She's been having hallucinations, and I'm worried if we lose her, we'll lose ourselves. She's the glue. We need to do something to keep her stabilized. Now, I know you have health insurance, but you likely can't get something you don't need, which is why Rachel's suggested we go to the street for it. Sadly, neither of us know anyone who might know how to score street level antipsychotics."

Wyatt sighed and looked at his shoes.

"I do," he said quietly, surprising Calvin with this admittance, before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling his cell phone out, dialing, then waiting. An answer. Wyatt grimaced and said, "Hey, Angie, it's Wyatt. I need you to do something for me."

Casey was at the pizzeria.

The live show had concluded, the series was on its seasonal hiatus, and as such, Casey needed regular income again, which meant going back to work at the pizzeria, something she didn't exactly mind, at least. Sitting in the back room, half in costume - the dog head on the couch beside her - and smoking a joint, she couldn't believe the experience she'd been allowed to have this year. She also couldn't wait to go back to work, which was a very new feeling for her. Since working for Bea, her drug usage had decreased, though not stopped entirely, and she felt more like a person than she had in years prior. A knock came to the back room door, and she shouted it was unlocked. The door opened and, of all people, Justine entered. Casey furrowed her brow in confusion and sat a bit more upright, coughing as she put out the joint.

"Hello," Justine said, smiling, as she entered.

"What...what are you doing here?" Casey asked, waving at the smoke with her hand.

"...I came to give you something," Justine said, grinning.

                                                                                                           ***

"I can't even begin to overstate how exhausted I am," Bea said, yawning.

Bea, Eliza and Michelle were sitting at a small cafe downtown; Eliza and Michelle were sharing some pastries, while Bea simply sipped from her coffee. They were awaiting Liam, but so far he hadn't shown up. Seemed he'd been particularly busy lately.

"It's like, every year of this wipes me out a little bit more than the previous," Bea continued, "not that I'm complaining, please don't think I'm complaining, because I'm not. I recognize I'm extremely lucky to get to do what we do, but it's exhausting nonetheless. Especially being in that goddamned costume so much. Thing is heavy."

"You could get a stand in," Michelle said, popping another donut hole into her mouth, "ya know, someone to do the physical labor and then you go in and just ADR all the lines."

"Not a bad idea, but I hate giving up any kind of control over Beatrice to anyone else," Bea said, and Michelle nodded. She knew Bea would never go for it, but she figured the suggestion couldn't hurt. Michelle checked her watch on her right wrist and shook her head. Bea, setting her mug back down, looked at them and asked, "are you expecting something?"

"We're going to finally adopt a dog today," Michelle said, "we just have to wait until a specified time to go to the shelter."

"How are you guys gonna adopt a dog if you don't live together? You gonna pass him back and forth like a child in shared custody?" Beatrice asked, smirking, making the girls laugh.

"That's...that's a question we've discussed a lot," Michelle said. Eliza got up and excused herself, heading for the bathroom in the back of the cafe. Michelle leaned in over the table and lowered her voice a bit, Beatrice leaning in as well. Michelle said, "I wanna get a place with her, our own place, because frankly I feel like I'm taking advantage of Delores's hospitality and also I think it's the next step in being in a relationship, but...I don't know how she'd feel about leaving her father."

"Why are we whispering if she isn't here?" Bea asked, making them both laugh. Michelle leaned back and shrugged, chuckling.

"Well," Michelle continued, "that's my predicament anyway. I wanna ask her, I just...getting a pet together is already a big step, but sharing a living space? It might just be too much change all at once for her."

"Let me tell you something," Bea said, leaning back in her chair, lifting her mug to her lips and taking a long sip before adding, "In the blink of an eye Eliza lost her mother. In the blink of an eye, I returned and gave her a new job. In the blink of an eye, it seemed you two got together. I know that all of these have a bit of time to them, but I don't think Eliza's the one you're worrying about. She does just fine with change when it isn't negative."

Michelle sighed and nodded, chewing on her nails nervously.

"I know, you're right, it's me," Michelle said, "I'm scared. I've never...I've never had this before. I've never dated. I've never lived with anyone but my parents and, well, Delores. I guess I just...I don't want to run her off or something."

"If you haven't yet, I doubt you will," Bea remarked.

Eliza rejoined them and continued eating donuts, while Bea just gave Michelle the most heartwarming smile she'd ever received. Michelle knew Bea was right. She had to do something. Lately all the change had been for the positive, and that was a trend she was deadset on continuing.

                                                                                                         ***

"Your story about your family, your mother in particular, it just...it got me thinking about my own mom," Justine said, "about how unlucky some people are in life to not have any family, or, even worse, to have family who utilize them for their own nefarious purposes."

"And you came all the way to this pizzeria to tell me that?" Casey asked.

"No, I could've called to do that," Justine said, reaching for her small pleather backpack and opening it, reaching inside, "no, this is more important. After meeting with you and Michelle and your friend, whatsername, Eliza? Whatever. After meeting with you all, I started to think about the various things you all, and myself, have lived through. Nobody in that room was untouched by trauma. I survived a small plane crash, you were sold to older men, Michelle's mother gaslit her for her illness and Eliza lost her mom in a car accident. All of us have momma trauma."

"Cute," Casey said, smirking.

"So then, I started researching what y'all do," Justine continued, "about the show, about what you guys do and what it is you help make, and I started to watch it. I even went to the live show one night, unbeknownst to any of you. Felt a little weird, admittedly, being a grown woman and sitting in a theater full of children, but when I do my research I am thorough, dammit."

"Are you sure you're okay mentally from that plane crash?" Casey asked, making Justine laugh loudly as she pulled out a wrapped package from the backpack and set it in her lap.

"More than okay! And more than more than okay after what you girls did for me," Justine said, "why is why I did something for you. Not the rest of them, just you."

That got Casey's attention. She pulled her legs up on the couch and, best she could in the costume, sat cross legged.

"What...what did you do?" Casey asked.

"I made you a book," Justine replied.

                                                                                                            ***

Michelle and Eliza had left for the shelter, leaving Beatrice alone with her thoughts.

It had been a weird season. She'd lost her mother, put on a live show, and watched her two closest female friends forge together on a path to a relationship she never would've expected. All in all, for the first time in a while, it felt like she wasn't the lead character in the story of her own life, and that was nice. Bea finished off the last of the pastries the girls left behind and then finished her coffee, exhaling, resting her chin on her fist as she glanced out the window at the overcast sky. Maybe next season she'd let Michelle do more than just set design. Maybe...maybe it was time to bring her into the writers room for good. She could use fresh perspective, and she was slowly getting a little more comfortable giving up control to those she deemed worthy enough of it. Bea heard a chair scoot out from across from her and glanced up, spotting Liam seating himself, resting his cane on the edge of the table. Bea checked her watch.

"God, you're so late," she said, "you missed the girls."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Liam said, "uh...I had an appointment that I couldn't reschedule."

"Everything okay?" Bea asked, and Liam didn't know how to answer that. Beatrice had already experienced so much loss this year, with her mother, how could he dump his problems onto her as well? Still, they were eachothers oldest friends. That was part of the deal, sharing in the pain. But instead, Liam simply smiled and nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "nothing I can't handle."

                                                                                                          ***

The car was parked, and Eliza was ready to climb out and head into the shelter, but Michelle grabbed her wrist and pulled her gently back into the car. Eliza shut the door once back inside and looked at Michelle, confused but curious. Michelle exhaled and ran her hands through her hair.

"Okay," she said, "um...Bea brought up a good point, about, ya know, having a dog when we live separately. And, uh...and I think I wanna talk about that."

"Well, what's to talk about? Aren't we gonna get a place?" Eliza asked, taking Michelle completely by surprise; Eliza smiled at Michelle's widened eyes and added, "obviously we can't share a pet if we don't share a home. That just isn't right. I might be kind of slow, but I'm not stupid."

"And you're...you're okay with that? You're comfortable with that?" Michelle asked, "cause...cause I know leaving your dad might be a big deal and...and being in a new situation could be stressful and I just...the last thing I ever wanna do is put stress of any kind on you, or us as a couple, and-"

"Michelle," Eliza said, turning to face her now, "neither of us have ever been with someone else before eachother. But...I can't see myself ever beeing with someone other than you, now. I think I could handle living together. It's not like we'd move out of the city. We have jobs here, and I don't wanna leave my dad completely behnd. Except for, you know...intimate stuff...I'm very happy and comfortable with you and I'd be even happier and more comfortable knowing that at the end of each day, we would still be together in person."

Michelle wanted to cry. She'd expected this to be so much more difficult. Things throughout her life had been so difficult that difficult had become the norm for her expectations wise. Eliza held Michelle's hand, and Michelle leaned across the seats, kissing Eliza on the lips, the both of them laughing nervously afterwards. Foreheads against one another, Michelle's hand on Eliza's cheek, she smiled.

"Let's go get a dog," she said.

                                                                                                           ***

Justine handed the wrapped package across to Casey, who took it, her hands shaking from anxiety. Justine had made her a book? They'd only met once, and she'd made her an entire book? It felt slim. Small. Casey looked from the gift up to Justine, who was brimming with anticipation at the response, and nodding, indicating Casey should open it. Casey exhaled, pulled the giftwrap open, and let the book drop in her lap, her hands over her mouth in shock. It was a childrens book, just like what Justine normally made, but this one...

...this one featured a little girl who looked a lot like Casey as a child. It also featured a dog, as the two sat in a beautiful watercolor painting of meadow flowers. The title simply read "Beatrice & Casey". Casey couldn't contain herself, and she started to cry. Justine got up and came across the room, seating herself on the couch beside Casey and hugging her from the side, stroking her hair.

"It's okay," Justine said, "we live through terrible things that make us stronger people. What you endured is something no little girl should ever endure, and when you told me how Beatrice helped you feel safe in that time of your life, during the most vile acts a person can commit on a child...I just knew you deserved to have a childhood worth remembering, even if its fictional."

"This is...the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me," Casey said through her tears, trying not to sob uncontrollably, "this is...like...this is amazing. Thank you so much."

Casey turned and hugged Justine back, the two girls just laughing and crying together. Even without knowing it, Beatrice was bringing people together.

"Listen," Justine said, "I know you're an artist. You shouldn't have to work here. I know it probably feels familiar and safe, but...come work with me. Not FOR me, WITH me. While the show is off the air, we can make books together, we can help other little girls feel safe too. What do you say?"

How could Casey turn down an offer like that? She gladly accepted, and turned in her costume scant minutes later. While Casey and Justine headed out to an early dinner to celebrate their newfound business partnership, Eliza and Michelle took their new Dalmation back to Eliza's dads house, where the three of them played with him all afternoon. Beatrice herself, after spending a little time with Liam, went home and found Leslie cleaning, but as soon as she entered the apartment, she told Leslie to pack her bags because they were going on vacation. The last few years had been weird and hard on everyone, and it was time for a break. Liam, however, stayed behind at the cafe, nursing his coffee, just thinking. Thinking about his appointment that day. Hell, about all the appointments he'd had those last few months. He'd been into the doctors office so many times lately, it seemed like.

"Even if we'd caught it sooner, it's so aggressive I don't think any kind of therapy would do much of anything," his doctor told him that afternoon, "...are you going to be okay? We have many grief counselors who do wonderful work in helping patients come to terms with these sorts of things."

"No, no, I'll be fine," Liam said, waving the doctor away, "I'll be fine, but thank you. I just need a moment to process."

"Of course," his doctor replied, before exiting the room, leaving Liam alone in the office. Liam exhaled and thought about his options. He had so much to prepare for. He had to get Beatrice on track with merchandising in a way that would ensure financial longevity, he had to make sure Stephanie would never ever take advantage of Beatrice no matter what, and he had to make sure that Michelle would always be there to keep her grounded. He had a lot of work to do, and only a little under a year to do it. Liam picked up his cane and thought about Marvin, and smiled weakly. At least there was an upside to it, he thought, we'll be together again soon. His thoughts turned back to Bea, to the show, and he chuckled. That's the thing about art, he thought...art made you immortal. Your involvement would ensure you last forever.

Even if you only had a handful of months to live.