"She was selling candy," Boris said, "You can't say no to a little girl selling candy, even if most of them are from well off families who don't need the money to begin with."

"You're a real sentimental person, aren't you?" Father Krickett asked, smirking.

The two men were seated on a bench downtown, just taking in the view. That morning, as Boris had gone to get them lunch for the afternoon, he found a young girl with a card table stashed outside of the deli, and when she told him she was selling candy bars to secure her future for college, well, Boris couldn't just say no to that. He happily bought one, a Mars Bar, the same candy bar he'd loved as a young boy. Sitting here now, admiring the wrapper as it was still unopened, he could feel a twinge of nostalgia in his heart.

"It's a right of passage, I think," he said, "to sell stuff as a kid to adults that they don't need. Wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, candy. I think it's something you have to do or you don't have the full childhood experience."

"Right, because unchecked capitalism is what makes one wistful for the time of your youth, not growing and learning and playing," Father Krickett replied, the both of them laughing. He opened his sandwich, tore open a mustard packet and applied it, then closed the sandwich back up again, taking a bite.

"It's more about sharing that with every other kid," Boris said, "like...like it's a universal thing every child went through, so you don't feel so alone. Does that make sense? Kind of like losing your baby teeth."

"Not sure that's the best example of shared childhood nostalgia," Father Krickett said, "but I get where you're coming from. A shared sense of commonality amongst your peers. So why did you pick a Mars Bar?"

Boris looked down at the candy bar and he felt his eyes tear up. How could he ever explain how a Mars Bar had had so much unexpected impact on his life? How could anyone ever understand it without experiencing it themselves? He sighed and looked up at the school across the street, watching kids playing on the playground. Boris smiled weakly, remembering how he used to pretend he was going to be an astronaut, how he was going to go to Mars, be the first human colonizer on the planet. And how, in the end, all he got was a candy bar.

"It's all about attachment," Boris said, clearing his throat, "it's about the things that were a part of your life, whether knowingly or unknowingly. I don't think I've ever told you about my family. My mother, my father. My mother was...god...she was a different kind of woman than the other women in her time period. She was science focused, interested in pursuing the future in a way that would only be dreamed about later on. My father was supportive of her, which, again, was unlike men back then. I took after my mother a lot. We shared a love of literature, a love of science, the future. The future always seemed hopeful...at least until you experience it."

Father Krickett nodded, sipping his coffee from his styrofoam cup and listening closely.

"...but I suppose it's somewhat an attachment to what my mother represented. Hope. The future. At least until those things are taken away from you in an instant. I tried to raise my daughter with the same beliefs, that she was capable of anything, but I did it the wrong way. I chose what she should be capable of, instead of letting her choose for herself. I tried to be my mother, but I failed. I even failed to be my father."

"Nobody should be their parents," Father Krickett said, tossing his trash in the can beside the bench and wiping his pants off with his palms, "god forbid, that's the absolute last thing anyone wants to become."

"I didn't know what to be," Boris continued, "but I did know one thing...and that's that a Mars Bar was crucial."

                                                                                                            ***

"You're looking better," Jenn said, bringing Melody a bowl of soup as she sat up on the couch, groaning a bit as she moved.

"Yeah, well, it was mostly superficial I'm betting," Melody replied, "but either way, I guess it's good not be so physically disfigured that everyone can instantly tell I survived something I put myself through. The last thing I want is to answer questions."

Jenn sat down on the couch herself, sighing and looking at her nails.

"I know you probably don't wanna hear this," Jenn said, "but...I think it's good to answer questions. Being asked things are how we internally identify who we are and what we believe in. It forces us to renew our perspective, see if it shifts and changes over time. Realign ourselves with our new morals and ethics and beliefs."

"Aren't morals, ethics and beliefs essentially the same thing? Why do we need three words to express one idea?" Melody asked, causing Jenn to stop talking. Whittle, who had been in the kitchen and overheard the conversation, moved into the living room behind the couch.

"Do you have any family we could contact? Any friends? Anybody? Because if so, they're probably worried and-"

"First off, no, I don't have anyone, and secondly, even if I did, they wouldn't be worried, I can assure you," Melody said, eating the soup Jenn had brought. Whittle and Jenn exchanged a look, then Jenn got up from the couch and followed Whittle back into the kitchen. Whittle started the dishwasher, as an effort to hush their voices further so they wouldn't be heard.

"She can't just live here," Whittle said, "she needs to be in some kind of facility or, barring that, with people who know her."

"You heard her, she doesn't have anyone who knows her."

"I don't know that I believe anything she says, honestly," Whittle remarked, "she's dodgy about everything, and she tried to run her car into our apartment complex. She's not exactly a reliable source of information."

"We could take her to the hospice," Jenn said, shrugging.

"She's in her 20s, she's not elderly," Whittle replied, "besides, the last thing they need is someone with her viewpoints on living. Carol has enough work cut out for her keeping everyone upbeat there as it is. She doesn't need some sad sack parading around, declaring to everyone that they too should try to end their lives, seeing as how close to the end they already are."

Jenn peeked back out from the kitchen to the living room, watching Melody eat, and sighed. She knew Whittle was right, but what could they really do? They couldn't just turn her loose. Besides, Boris would have a thing or two to say about that if such a decision were to be made without him. Suddenly an idea crossed her mind.

"I could take her to church," she said.

                                                                                                          ***

"I never knew you were so into the stars," Father Krickett said as he and Boris walked down the street, passing through a nearby park. Boris was still admiring the candy bar wrapper in his hand.

"Well, it wasn't so much the stars themselves, but what they represented," Boris said, "growing up, reading pulp science fiction dime store novels, the future was always presented as hopeful. Space was this vast frontier of unexplored possibilities that could only improve our lives if we managed to somehow tame it. So it was more the idea that we had a lot more chances at something great...instead, we got the future we got, and we rarely go to space now."

Father Krickett nodded, silently acknowledging that Boris wasn't wrong. He could remember being a young boy and watching space shuttle launches himself, eager and excited at the scope of what they meant, but now...now they were lucky if they even sent a supply ship up the ISS on a regular basis. Space had gone from a thing of grand wonder to another in a long line of mankinds failures to control the universe.

"I still don't understand what the Mars Bar has to do with any of this," Father Krickett said.

"...my mother was a writer, like me, and she was in the middle of writing a collection of short stories that took place on Mars," Boris said, "unfortunately, she got so sick that she eventually lost her energy to write. It wouldn't be until years down the line that I realized what she had was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, something that wouldn't be recognizable nor diagnosable for years afterwards. Now instead of writing, she just did the bare minimum of upkeep around the house, including very little cooking, and this was when my father got angry. Said she wasn't upholding wifely duties. While he slaved away in an office all day, she was here, essentially 'resting'. Their marriage started to break down, but now my mom had no creative outlet to turn to."

"Good lord," Father Krickett muttered, "that sounds like it must've been stressful to grow up around."

"Yeah, which is why my mother didn't want me growing up around it and sent me to stay with her sister for weeks on end," Boris said, "the last time I went to see my aunt, I was sitting on the front porch, and my mother gave her what bit of writing she had accomplished for that collection...and a Mars Bar. She told me that no matter what, the stars were always reachable if I just tried hard enough."

Boris stopped and looked at the candy bar in his hands, feeling his eyes water up. Father Krickett put a hand on Boris's shoulder.

"...when I came home, she had been committed to a hospital, and I rarely got to see her after that," Boris said, "and try as I might to take her words to heart, much like the love of a parent, the stars are inaccessible to some of us. Some of us will never be astronauts, and some of us will never have mothers."

                                                                                                          ***

The church was nearly done at this point, and would likely be opening in the next two months. Walking through the chapel, Sister Jenn couldn't contain her pride over the hard work she and Father Krickett had put into it. Melody and Whittle followed a little bit behind, both seeming rather uneasy to be here. As they passed by a pew, Whittle smirked. She remembered the first time she'd kissed Jenn, right here on one of these pews, and how, in a way, maybe church wasn't such a bad place afterall.

"Why did she insist on bringing me to this place?" Melody asked, "my legs are still very sore, I don't really like walking."

"Well, get used to it," Whittle replied, "sorry, not to sound rude, but, you're not handicapped. You're gonna have a lot of walking left to do in your life, might as well strengthen up now while you have the downtime. As for why she thought this was a good idea...Jenn has this belief that church can be a welcoming place for anyone if they just let it."

"Do you let it?" Melody asked, and Whittle folded her arms, chewing her lip.

"I...I do, I think," she said, "that doesn't mean I'm religious by any means, but it's nice to know there's a building out there dedicated solely to the security of my soul, and in making me feel heard and understood. Not every church is like that, for the record, but they've put in the effort to make this one understanding to anyone and everyone, and non judgmental, and I think that goes a long way."

"So you don't think God would hate me for trying to end my life?" Melody asked, and Whittle shrugged.

"I'm not the nun, that's not for me to say," she replied.

Melody scoffed and headed ahead, catching up to Jenn, who was now looking at a large stained glass window. Melody stopped alongside her and looked up as well, then looked back at Jenn, who smiled happily at her. Melody had to admit, religion seemed to bring Jenn a kind of peace and zenlike attitude she'd never before seen on someone, and she was somewhat jealous of that.

"So, uh...do you believe in God?" Melody asked, and Jenn exhaled.

"I think," Jenn said, "whatever name you want to ascribe to it, that there's a higher power of some sort in the universe that cares about our well being. People point out the flaws in this, of course, 'oh why would God have me suffer like this if they care so much?' but...suffering is just a part of life. You can't have pleasure without pain. Happiness without sadness. Tears without joy. To block out one is eliminating an entire spectrum of emotions. It's a dangerous slippery slope. But I don't think God themselves is necessarily orchestrating all the negativity either. It's random chaos. They're just here to watch, and help us when we need it. When we need someone to listen, because nobody else will."

"So...you do believe in God?" Melody asked.

"I believe in what I like to call The Inevitable Whatever," Jenn said, smiling brightly, "there's something out there, we'll find out eventually regardless of if we want to or not, and since we can't have definitive proof of its existence, I have no right to name it, so it is whatever it is. It's the inevitable whatever. But knowing that something loves me...something wants me to be safe...that brings me peace of mind no matter what."

Melody nodded, listening. She was beginning to understand. She wasn't going to rush out and join a convent, or anything, but she did see the comfort in believing something, whatever it was, only had your best interests at heart. There was a level of love in that that nobody else in the world could give you. A level you just had to have faith and hope in, and that was where Melody fell off. She struggled to have faith and hope in anything now.

"It's pretty cool you built a church," Melody said.

"It is, isn't it?" Jenn replied.

                                                                                                        ***

Boris and Father Krickett had stopped at their usual diner, getting an early dinner. But neither had spoken much since Boris had told his story about his parents, and Father Krickett, admittedly, didn't really know what to say in response to it all. He'd rarely seen Boris break down like this, and it made him nervous. Sitting there, reading through the menu, John sucked air through his teeth anxiously while Boris tapped the table with his fork.

"...do you know where Nilda Avenue is?" Boris suddenly asked, and John looked up from his menu.

"Uh, yes, actually I do," he replied, "I used to do sermons out there from time to time when I was just starting out. They'd send me in while they looked for other preists to take over for full time duties. Why?"

"My childhood home is on that street," Boris said, "and I think I'd like to see it before I die."

"Well we can easily arrange that," John said.

"It's funny," Boris said, "you spend your whole childhood waiting to be an adult, escape the places you grew up in, and then as soon as death starts to creep in, it's the only place you wanna go back to. Circular irony, I suppose. I haven't been back to it since I left, I wonder if it looks the same or it's been renovated."

"What it looks like now doesn't matter, what matters is what it looked like then, during the time it mattered most," John said.

"That wasn't the time that mattered most," Boris said, coughing and chuckling as he reached across the table and held John's hand, adding, "this is."

John could feel himself wanting to cry. He wanted to break down and beg Boris not to leave him, even though he knew he had no choice in the matter. Death waits for nobody, and it comes for us all. But...it felt impossibly unfair to meet someone who got you, who cared, and then who left. John had had so many people he loved leave already, why did Boris have to leave too? John's belief in his faith had become shaky, to say the least, but instead of crying or giving into the sadness, he just smiled, swallowed his gloom and nodded in agreement. Because, in a sense, Boris was right. John knew even now that, no matter what else happened with the rest of his life after this...the time he'd spent with Boris would be the most important of all, and he'd never trade that for anything.

"I'll take you home," John said.

Wyatt had been having that dream again.

It would come in cycles. Sometimes he wouldn't have it for months, maybe even a year, and then suddenly it'd be recurring for weeks straight. In the dream, he was back in high school, in his old bedroom, sitting with Amelia Klepper as she relayed to him her story ideas about a new werewolf idea she had. One where a group of werewolves infiltrate the government and make the food supply scarce, thus enacting stringent cannibalistic laws to further their own feeding agenda. Wyatt wasn't one for stories such as these, exactly, but he loved hearing her passion about it. This was often their routine when Wyatt's parents had their date nights; Amelia would sneak in and they would just hang out in his bedroom and talk. But the dream always ends the same. A different way than the reality had.

A way that, quite frankly, was making Wyatt start to feel uncomfortable.

Wyatt would wake up sweating, breathing heavily, his throat feeling tight. He would climb clumsily out of bed and go for the bathroom, filling up a glass of water that he kept in there specifically for that. He would drink from it, then walk back into the bedroom, and that's when he'd notice the lights on outside. As if his dream wasn't rough enough, these lights had become a regular thing as well. He couldn't tell where they were coming from or what they belonged to, because as soon as he approached the window to get a better look, they shut off, and it was too dark outside to see anything. Was someone watching him? Someone involved with the law, perhaps? The whole ordeal, dream and all, kept him so unnerved that he often had trouble going back to sleep.

Which wasn't great because sleep was one of the few places he felt alright lately, even in spite of the dream.

                                                                                                       ***

"Are you aware that you have an enormous snowglobe collection?" Rachel asked as she stood in Kelly's room, looking at her bookshelf.

"How would I not be aware?" Kelly responded, not looking up from her book as she laid in bed.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew you were lame is all," Rachel replied, making Kelly laugh.

It had been two weeks since Kelly had gotten back into living in her parents, back in her old bedroom, and in that brief span of time, she'd become incredibly bored. She contemplated many hobbies to fill the slow passage of time; knitting, origami, whatever she could easily do from bed with her hands, but none of it really appealed to her. Not until she'd started reading about horses again. When they were little girls, Rachel and Kelly had loved horses - it had been one of the things that brought them together as friends to begin with - and together they'd taken riding lessons, for a bit anyway, until Rachel stopped. Growing up, they'd read a series of easy to read chapter books together called "Frontier Girls", about a group of young teen girls who end up solving crimes in the west with the help of their horses. Kelly still had her entire collection, and this was what she'd been recently re-reading from bed. Rachel picked up one of the snowglobes and looked at it, scoffing.

"Arizona? Really? As if they get snow," Rachel said, setting it back down on the shelf before turning to look towards the bed and asking, "...aren't you bored to death in here?"

"Kinda," Kelly said, shrugging, "that's why I started reading again."

As soon as Rachels eyes landed on the cover of the book, her blood ran cold. She'd put up with seeing Wyatt's pony, but the idea of horses still made her feel sick as a dog. She could feel herself start to hyperventilate, and quickly excused herself from the room, rushing to the bathroom across the hall and shutting the door tightly behind her. Leaning against the sink, she tried to get herself to calm down. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and she sighed. One day...one day she would have to face her issues with horses, but that day wasn't today.

                                                                                                         ***

"Could just be neighbors kids, screwing around," Scarlett said as she poured Wyatt some coffee.

"Could be, but I doubt it," he said, lifting the mug to his lips and sipping, "it's way too...consistent. Nobodys kid is that regularly timed. Anyway the whole thing is freaking me out."

"Could also be someones alert lights," Scarlett continued, seating herself now, "you know, like those flood lights people attach to their homes with motion detectors, and it's just happening to see something and turning on and off at the same time each night. Though, again, that's really coincidental I guess."

"I'm glad you acknowledged that so I didn't have to," Wyatt remarked, the both of them chuckling. They sat in silence together, the kids already at school and daycare, enjoying this morning to themselves for a change. It wasn't often Scarlett and Wyatt got alone time like this, and lately, that had been Wyatt's fault more than anyone else's. He sighed and set his mug back down, running his hands over his face.

"Anything else wrong?" Scarlett asked.

"Do you remember Calvin Klepper's sister?" Wyatt asked.

"...yeah, actually I do," Scarlett replied, chewing on her lip for a moment as she thought, "she was that girl who wrote about werewolves, right? She had that frizzy hair and those big front teeth, real dorky lookin'. I mean, she seemed nice enough, just, ya know. Total nerd."

"Right," Wyatt said, "I've been having this dream about her lately."

"Ooh, are you sure you want your wife to hear about this? She might get jealous," Scarlett said, playfully smirking.

"Nah, she's too level headed for jealousy honestly," Wyatt replied, making her smile as he added, "besides it isn't like, a sex dream, or anything. She's just in my dream. I knew her back in high school, before I met you obviously. I don't know why, out of the blue, I'm dreaming about her."

"Our brains categorize stuff weirdly and then use it in dreams, it's all random," Scarlett said, picking up her jam covered toast and taking a bite, speaking as she chewed, "it probably doesn't mean a thing, so don't worry too much about it. However, if you two start doing the nasty in the dream, tell me, because that's hot."

"Oh you like the idea of me with other women?" Wyatt asked, laughing as he stood up and fixed his tie, preparing to head to work.

"Baby, I think I might be into cucking," Scarlett said, making him throw his head back and laugh loudly. He walked around the side of the table, kissed her on the top of the head and then again on the lips, and, grabbing his briefcase from his chair, left to his car. He could never tell her he'd dated Amelia Klepper, she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't be mad or jealous or anything, she just...wouldn't understand. Nobody really did, in all honesty, even the few people, like Calvin, who'd known while it was happening.

Wyatt drove to the office, but not before stopping off and getting a box of donuts. Lately he'd been bringing in a box for all the employees to share, and it had made him a more popular boss than he'd already been. One of the reasonings was the fact that he knew his own father would never treat his employees to things like this, and he refused to be that man. Wyatt exited the donut shop, large pink box tucked under his arm and a bear claw hanging from his mouth, when he heard someone approach him from behind. He turned, assuming he'd forgotten something in the shop, only to find himself face to face with a woman who seemed vaguely familiar.

"...can I help you?" Wyatt asked.

"You've already helped so much," Angie said, "do you remember me?"

"...not particularly, no," Wyatt said, continuing towards his car, Angie hot on his heels, eager like an excited child.

"You...you convinced me to leave The Evergreens, to not get on the plane and go to the convention," Angie said, and this made Wyatt stop, hand on his door handle. He slowly turned towards her, setting the donut box on the roof of his car and chewing his lip anxiously.

"...right, yeah, I DO remember you," he said, "I guess you saw the crash."

"I did indeed," Angie said, "you saved me from that. If you hadn't talked me out of it, I would've been on that plane, I would've died like the rest of them. But because of you, your words, I'm here today, and I'm so very grateful for that."

"Well, I'm glad to be of service," Wyatt said, unlocking his car and setting the donut box down on the passenger seat now, "but I really have to get to work, so I'm glad you're doing alright, glad you weren't on there and-"

"Wyatt," Angie said, taking him by surprise by knowing his name, "let me help you with anything I can. I owe it to you."

Wyatt, now starting to feel uncomfortable, politely declined and thanked her before climbing into the drivers side of the car and starting it, before pulling out of his parking space and tearing away, leaving Angie feeling very unsatisfied. Standing there, watching him speed him, she folded her arms and grimaced. Somehow, someway, she would find a way to serve him, and repay the debt for saving her life. Wyatt didn't know it just yet, but there was an out of control train coming directly at him...and its name was Angie Dickenson.

                                                                                                        ***

"I just...I lost  it," Rachel said.

She was leaning against Calvin's workbench in the shed, as he sat on a stool and drank from his soda can, listening to her as she talked. Rachel nervously reached up to her face and pushed her hair from her face, exhaling slowly.

"I had to leave suddenly, and I'm sure that didn't make Kelly feel very good," Rachel said, "but I just...I couldn't be around anything horse related. I felt like I was going to throw up."

"Are you feeling okay now?" Calvin asked, and she shrugged.

"Who knows, dude," she said, "I can't tell anymore. Feels like the only emotion I can accurately feel is fear, and know I'm feeling it. Which, now that I've said that out loud, is very very sad. I get that she's probably dealing with a lot of stuff, nostalgia and regression cause of what happened, like, that shit would make you view your whole life from a new lens, I get it, but I just can't be around anything like that."

"Why is that?" Calvin asked, and Rachel opened her mouth, then looked at Calvin, and shut her mouth again.

She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell anyone. She looked away, her eyes veering back to the floor of the shed and Calvin just shrugged it off, continuing to drink from his soda. Rachel reached into the bag of chips on the table, grabbing a handful and shoving them in her mouth, chewing noisily. Nobody would ever understand, hell, not even her own folks really managed to grasp it. So far it was just the paranoia creeping back in, not the hallucinations, so that was a plus at least.

"Well," Calvin said, finishing his drink and crushing the can, tossing it into a nearby trashcan before continuing, "just get her into a different hobby. A different animal at least."

"You don't know Kelly the way I do," Rachel said, "she's obsessed with horses. I don't think anyone could ever persuade her to like anything else even a quarter as much."

A moment of awkward silence passed through the shed and Rachel sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"I need to go home," she said, heading for the door, "I need to see Sun."

Calvin was, admittedly, a bit sad he couldn't be more helpful, but he let her go nonetheless. After all, he had once known what it was like to have a woman who could manage to quash all your fears, and he wouldn't keep that from anyone else.

                                                                                                           ***

"It was creepy," Wyatt said, shoving the end of a donut into his mouth, "like, genuinely horror movie level creepy."

Celia snickered from the opposite side of the desk. Lately, she'd been coming and spending her lunch hour with Wyatt; some days that meant going to lunch, some days that meant sitting in his office. Today, he'd saved her a donut or two, and she'd brought her own lunch from a Korean restaurant down the street to share with him. He picked up his fork and started to dig into the food she'd brought, as she sipped from her drink.

"Well," she said, "maybe she's just an overzealous fan of being alive. I mean, you did stop her from getting on that plane. She could feel eternally grateful. I can't imagine what it must be like, to so narrowly avoid certain death by such a slim margin. That would change a person."

"Sure, and I get that," Wyatt said, lifting his food to his lips, "but why's she gotta make sure I know it? To be honest, I forgot about her. Once she started talking I remembered talking to her before, obviously, but she seemed way too familiar with me, talking at me like we were old buddies. It was...unnerving."

Celia put her food container back down on the desk and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

"So, what, you think she's stalking you or something?" Celia asked, and Wyatt instantly stopped digging around in his food container and looked up towards her, his eyes widening.

"You don't think she is, do you?" he replied quietly.

"Dude, you're so paranoid," Celia responded, "you need a vacation or something. Sure, the Evergreens were full of misguided whackjobs, but I hardly think that qualifies any of them to be serial killers or stalkers. They were just nature nuts."

"Nature nuts who worshipped the wrong man for wrongfully blowing up another man," Wyatt said, pointing at her with his plastic fork, "don't forget that part. What if, now, instead of worshipping Brighton, she's worshipping me? You said it yourself, I saved her from getting on that thing, I could be seen as a divine intervening force."

"Wow, someone thinks highly of themselves," Celia said, smirking, "Wyatt, I'm sure she just feels grateful. I'm sure it's nothing more, alright? Seriously, you need to learn to relax. Go to the beach or something."

Wyatt slumped back into his chair and nodded solemnly. Celia was probably right. She usually was. She was, after all, the most level headed person amongst them, so why wouldn't she be, and she spoke with such certainty that he had a hard time doubting her assuredness. But something about Angie made Wyatt uneasy, and he didn't know what to do or feel about it. He simply couldn't shake the thought that this girl wasn't just a danger to herself, but also to everyone else, especially him.

Maybe he should've let her get on the plane.

                                                                                                         ***

Rachel was lying on the couch when Sun Rai came in through the front door of the apartment. She stopped after shutting the door behind her and looked at Rachel, before hanging her purse and coat on the rack by the door. Sun Rai slowly approached the couch and sat down, Rachel lifting her head up and laying it back down on Sun's lap once she was seated. Sun began to slowly sift her fingers through Rachel's hair, and Rachel shut her eyes.

"You wouldn't hate me for being sick, right?" Rachel asked.

"I don't hate my father," Sun Rai replied, "I spend hours every day over at my parents just helping my mom because of it. I hate him for other reasons, but not for that. Not for something he can't control."

"But there's differing levels of illness," Rachel said, on the verge of tears.

"What, and they deserve varying degrees of response?" Sun Rai asked, "that's ridiculous. Illness is illness, albeit mental or physical. Hell, if anything, I think people who ask for help with mental illnesses are far stronger. That's something you often have a choice in. If you get a terminal illness, you don't have really any choices in the matter of getting better. It's already decided for you. So many physical health ailments are already unable to be altered or fixed. But if you fight every single day in your own mind and STILL want help? That's strength."

Rachel wanted to talk about it. She'd never spoken openly to anyone except her folks about the things she saw. The THING she saw. One thing. The thing that followed her, haunted her. Terrified her like nothing else. But she also knew the ramifications of opening oneself up to another person, and the judgement that came along with that, regardless of their promise not to judge. She knew better than to ask for help or understanding.

"...I think I need help," Rachel said softly, and Sun leaned down, planting her lips on Rachel's head.

"Then we'll get you help," she whispered, "whatever you need, I'll help you achieve it."

Rachel didn't want help, but she needed it at this point. This was something she could no longer ignore. She had started seeing the See Through Horse again with such regularity that it was concerning. Later that night, after they'd fallen asleep on the couch watching TV, Rachel awoke to use the bathroom. As she entered and turned the light on, she saw a shadow behind the shower curtain in the bathroom mirror, and she stopped breathing for a moment. The shadow...it was that of the horse. She slowly turned, reached for the curtain and pulled it back, only to reveal, as usual, absolutely nothing.

Rachel didn't get much sleep that night.

                                                                                                      ***

Wyatt pulled into the driveway of his home and parked, exhaling. Scarlett was home, the kids would be up, and he looked forward to spending some time together with his family. Forgetting about all the shit he was knee deep in. He turned to open his drivers side door when he saw Angie's face at the window and screamed shrilly, jumping in his seat. Atfer a moment of catching his breath, Angie laughing outside the car, he opened the door and stepped out.

"Don't do that!" he said, hand to his chest.

"You scream like a little girl," she continued laughing, doubled over, hands on her knees.

"I do not," Wyatt said, "I scream like a manly man doing manly things, like...like lumberjacking or...car bombing. What...what are you even doing here? How do you know where I live?"

"I know so much about you, Wyatt Bloom," Angie said, standing back upright, approaching, pushing him up against his car as she continued, "I know everything. You can't blindly worship someone without knowledge of their identity. I know you have two children, a wife, and I know where you work. I know your fathers name. I know you used to be the star of your high school baseball team. I just want to help you the way you helped me."

"Well, that's...creepy and appreciated, somehow simultaneously, but I don't really need any help right now," Wyatt said, "but thanks for asking. If I ever do, you'll be the first to know, promise."

"Wyatt," Angie said, grabbing his wrist tightly, "I'm standing by."

The front porch light turned on, and Angie took off like a shot in the dark, vanishing down the street. The door opened and Scarlett was standing there, waving at him. He waved back, smiling, telling her he'd be inside in a minute. As she shut the door, Wyatt pulled out his cell phone and dialed Celia.

"Yeah, hi, it's me," he said, "we've got a big problem."

It had taken a few weeks to get the live show set up. Promotion, stage rental, hiring one time performers, etc. As for staging and props, they simply utilized the stuff from the show proper, so that saved a bit of time. In between preparation for all this, the shows current season wrapped up with introducing Keagan's puppet, Serena, and the reaction was overwhelmingly positive, which only lifted Keagan's spirits more and more. Soon she was inundated with fanmail for her performance as Serena, from young black girls who couldn't believe they saw themselves on their favorite show. Everything seemed to be going just great, all except for Beatrice.

The signs of her cracking first began to show at her mothers funeral. She invited Liam, Michelle, Eliza and Leslie, if only because she needed that support. But even then, each of them could see she wasn't handling the loss well at all. Hell, the drive for the live show was a direct result of her not handling it well, so it wasn't like it wasn't obvious. But they retained hope that she would come back, stronger than ever, just in time for the show. Unfortunately, as the premiere date drew ever closer, Beatrice seemed to become more and more reserved and unhinged. She would lock herself in her office at work, even away from Liam, and she would spend a good majority of her time at home sobbing in the bedroom. Leslie did her best to comfort her, but it only went so far.

Now, with opening night only 24 hours away, nobody knew how she would be when the time to perform came, and quite frankly, it scared them all deeply. Finally, that night before the premiere as they all ate dinner at the pizzeria, Bea and Leslie not attending, Liam asked the hard question.

"What do we do if she can't get her shit together?"

And nobody seemed to have an answer.

                                                                                                     ***

"She's always been a rock," Michelle said, sitting on Eliza's bed, reading a magazine while Eliza fiddled with one of her trains; Michelle continued, "like, for any one of us, she's always been there to pick us up, so how come none of us know how to do the same for her?"

"She's an enigma," Eliza said, adjusting her jewlers loupe over one eye as she carefully adjusted a small piece on the trains wheel, "I never tried to make sense of her because there's no sense to be made, frankly. To be fair, none of us make any sense, but she especially doesn't."

"I take offense to that, I like to think I make plenty of sense!" Michelle said, chuckling.

"Believe whatever you want, doesn't make it the truth," Eliza replied, both of them laughing.

"Well, subjectivity aside," Michelle continued, "I want to do something to help her, but I just don't know what I can do."

"Speaking as someone who lost their mom suddenly," Eliza replied, turning around on her stool and pulling the loupe up from her eye, "she needs to process it, even if that's in ways we don't fully understand or agree with. Everyone deals with grief differently. I know when my mom died, I did the opposite of Bea. She throws herself into her work, I pulled away from mine. None of us reacts the way others do and often do we react the way others expect us to."

Michelle was impressed with Eliza's statement, the depth of its analysis, realizing she was completely right. Michelle sighed and stood up, plopping the magazine face down onto the bed and walking over to Eliza's stool, where she knelt down and, taking her face between her hands, kissed her.

"I need to move props," Michelle said, "We're all meeting at the pizzeria tonight, whether Bea's there or not, so I'll come by and pick you up once I've shifted everything to the stage."

"Do you want help?" Eliza asked.

"Casey's helping me," Michelle said, "You take some time off, work on your trains, just relax. You deserve it, especially after all the work you put in on Keagan's puppet."

Eliza blushed and nodded as Michelle kissed her on the forehead.

"Love you, I'll see you later tonight," Michelle said as she headed for the door.

"I love you too"! Eliza called out after her, giggling to herself like a schoolgirl with a first crush as Michelle exited. Eliza then pulled her loupe back down and, as Michelle suggested, went back to her trains. She did, in fact, deserve a break. She'd worked harder than most this year it seemed. She'd given so much of her time this year to other peoples interests, it wouldn't kill her to dedicate a day to her own for a change.

                                                                                                         ***

"You ever huff glue?" Casey asked, as she helped Michelle pull Bea's doghouse set onto the dolly and strap it in.

"What?" Michelle asked, laughing in response.

"When you're alone, doing set building, you ever huff glue?" Casey asked.

"No, never," Michelle said, "first of all, before this year I never would've been able to. I've always had bad lungs. But even now, I would't put my new good lungs in direct danger. I waited so long to breath properly, the last thing I wanna do is do potential damage to them."

"...we come from very different worlds, you and I," Casey said, shaking her head as they both laughed and wheeled the dolly down the truck ramp and into the parking lot of the performance building. Once it was stopped, Casey lit up a cigarette and took a long puff, before wiping the smoke away with her hand and adding, "sorry, hope it's fine to smoke around you at least."

"Oh, I don't care," Michelle said, shrugging, "do you do that regularly, huff glue, I mean?"

"Eh, not so much anymore, but as a teenager definitely," Casey replied, "when you grow up with parents like mine you look for any kind of out that'll result in dissociation of one kind or another."

Michelle wanted to say something supportive, something to show Casey that, even though their differences were so vast, she could relate to her issues in regards to her mother. But she just couldn't come up with the right words for the statement, so instead she just nodded in solemn understanding. They pulled out a few more set pieces and large props, and by the time they got to having most of the truck emptied, a car pulled into the lot and parked. Liam climbed out, looking somewhat haggard.

"You doing okay, buddy?" Michelle asked.

"I've done better," Liam said, groaning as he supported himself on his cane and hobbled towards them, "is this everything?"

"Yep," Michelle said, as Casey loaded the dolly back onto the truck; Michelle ran her hands through her hair and asked, "hey, uh...have you spoken to or seen Beatrice today?"

"Can't say that I have," Liam replied, holding his hand out to take Casey's cigarette as she returned, which she graciously handed him; he took a long drag, then exhaled and handed it back before adding, "but if I do, you'll be the first to know, outside of me, of course. Why? Are you worried about something?"

"I'm worried about her," Michelle said, "ever since her mom died, she hasn't seemed entirely...stable."

"Well, her mother did die, that changes a person," Liam said.

"I know that, I'm just concerned because she's supposed to perform in a live show and interact with children and she can barely manage interacting with her own friends at the moment," Michelle said. She looked between Liam and Casey, then added, "am I the only one worried about her?"

"Not at all," Liam said, "but...she's gotta do what she's gotta do. We just need to let her."

With that, Liam and Casey started moving the props and sets into the building, while Michelle stood there, shaking her head. She couldn't believe that Liam, of all people, would be so non chalant about Beatrice's rapidly desolving mental health when he'd long since been her biggest supporter. Then again, he did know her the best. He was her oldest friend. Maybe he knew what he was talking about. After driving the truck back to the networks studio lot, Michelle decided she'd grab Eliza and head to the pizzeria earlier than expected, if only because she could use something to eat and normal socialization that didn't revolve around Beatrice, even if only momentarily.

As Michelle and Eliza entered the pizzeria, Eliza quickly abandoned Michelle and headed for the little prize shop. Michelle, hands in her coat pockets, headed through the bright, flashing, loud games and came upon, of all people, Lex, at the skeeball. Michelle stopped and watched as Lex nailed each and every single ball. Once she was done, she pulled her tickets from the machine and winked at Michelle.

"I have to admit," Michelle said, "I'm impressed."

"Well, when I was little, before my dad went to prison, we used to go to this little carnival every weekend that was just outside of town and we'd always have skeeball tournaments. Guess you could say I got pretty good at it," Lex said, counting up her tickets.

"Is Keagan here?" Michelle asked.

"Yeah, she's over at the light gun area," Lex said, nodding in that direction, as she headed to the prize shop to join Eliza. Michelle nodded, then headed in the direction of Keagan. She found her, holding two lightguns, one in each hand, and playing some kind of alien shooter. As Michelle approached, Keagan smiled, put in more quarters for both players and handed Michelle one of the guns, which she gladly took.

"You better be careful, holding a light gun while black," Michelle said.

"God, I know right?" Keagan replied, "you get everything moved?"

"Yep. How's answering all that fan mail going?"

"Exhausting, my hand's cramping like a bitch," Keagan said, "but it's nice to get so many kind replies."

"Are you seriously answering each and every one?"

"Yep."

"Damn, that's dedication," Michelle said. As they lost the game, they set the lightguns back in their plastic holsters and turned away from the machine. Keagan pulled her hair back into a ponytail and sighed, hands on her hips as she and Michelle looked around the pizzeria. Each wanted to ask the question, but neither seemed to want to be the one to broach the topic. Finally Keagan bit her lip, and the bullet.

"Where is she?" she asked.

"Beats me," Michelle said, "Even Liam said he hadn't seen her, which is...worriesome."

Truth was, Beatrice had no interest in attending the gathering at the pizzeria. She was too busy hyperventilating at home, while Leslie yet again unsuccessfully attempted to bring her down. It wasn't so much the show that made her nervous, she was nothing if not a season performer at this point. It was more that she was upset that this was the first thing she was really doing without her mother being in the world. Something new, and something different, and even if her mother wasn't there to see it, she should've been around, existing at the same time as the production. After Beatrice finally fell asleep from exhaustion, Leslie sat in the living room, trying to get her wits about her. Tomorrow was going to be rough.

She looked over at the Beatrice costume sitting neatly assembled in a chair, the head atop the rest of the costume, and she shook her head. She was starting to see Beatrice as anything other than a way to avoid her issues, and was starting to wonder if even Bea herself could discern the difference between the character and herself. Was it even worth it too? Was it even worth it to be Amelia Burden? Leslie leaned back agains the couch and covered her face with her hands. She thought maybe this live show would just meld the two together even further, and if Beatrice continued to use Bea as an escape, as a means to avoid her problems with the world, what would she be then? Where did Beatrice Beagle end and Beatrice the person begin?

This live show worried her, but not for the reasons it worried the others.

                                                                                                      ***

The place was absolutely packed to the gills. The show had sold out, and the stage was set, prepared for the show. The only thing missing was Beatrice, who was hiding out in the trailer in the parking lot, refusing the come out. Liam and Michelle were pacing back and forth backstage, while Eliza sat on a stool and made a lanyard, something she did to ease her anxiety at times such as these. They could hear the murmurings of the kids and their parents in the audience, and Liam knew people would start getting restless soon. Casey joined them, an open beer in her hand, as Liam stopped and looked at her.

"You can't have an open container of alcohol in here, there's children," he said.

"What, and being in the proximity of it will make them alcoholics? Get real," Casey said, taking a long sip before looking around and asking, "Wait, where's Bea?"

"She won't come out of the trailer," Michelle said, shaking her head, unsure of how to approach the situation further, "...maybe we just cancel, refund, offer a public apology?"

"We've put too much time and effort into putting this goddamn thing together for her to just decide she doesn't want to do her one part of the job," Liam said.

"Her one part IS the job, dude," Casey said, "where's her trailer?"

Michelle told her, and Casey turned and headed out of the building. As she hit the parking lot, she spotted it. Turned out she didn't even need directions, as the damn thing was impossible to miss. Casey walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door, but to no avail. Casey then reached into her hair, pulled out a hairpin and unfurled it, picking the lock and letting herself in. Inside, she found Beatrice sitting on the couch, in costume, the dog head in her lap. Casey stopped in her tracks and stared at the sight.

"Not gonna lie, that's kind of a disconcerting sight," she said, "are you okay?"

"Why would I be?" Bea asked, and Casey approached the couch, dropping to her knees and looking up at Bea.

"...look, I probably am the last person to offer advice, especially on missing a parent who actually loved you," Casey said, "but...but you're a parent to most of those kids in there, whether you know it or not. You have a responsibility, not even to the studio but to those kids, to give them what they came here for. YOU. They came here for YOU. There are kids in there who only have one parent, or maybe they have no parents and they live with grandparents or aunts or uncles or whatever, and you're the only guiding light they have in their life. Do you wanna let them down the way all the other adults in their lives have?"

Beatrice looked at Casey, then down at the head in her lap and sighed, shaking her head slowly.

"Then get that fuckin head on and get in there and put on that show," Casey said, "You gave me a chance, you gave Michelle a chance, you gave everyone here a chance. We've all been through the shit, so it's time for you to get through the shit too. You think your mom would want you to sit in here and cry? Fuck no, dude. She'd want you to go in there and put on the show she knows you're capable of putting on. Do it for your mom, if you can't do it for the children."

Beatrice looked at Casey again, sighing more.

"It's more that..." Bea started, "doing this marks an era of my life without her."

"Dude, she's dead regardless of what you do," Casey said, "If you do the show or not, your mom is still dead. This doesn't change that. You might as well keep doing what keeps yourself, and others, happy, right?"

Beatrice hadn't thought it like that, she had to admit. No matter what she did, mope or perform, her mother was dead, and nothing was going to change that. Beatrice picked the head up from her lap and put it on, completing the costume. She stood up, as did Casey, and then hug her tightly, thanking her. Casey just hugged her back, best she could in that bulky costume, and told her it wasn't a problem at all.

"Everyone was worried and wanted to help," Casey said, "just...nobody knew how."

"How did you?" Bea asked.

"Guess being so disconnected from the world helps you see it clearer," Casey said, shrugging, "I'm not gonna feed you some sugar coated bullshit about how your mom is in some great place now, because really, that's insulting. Oh, the place she went to after death is better? How? Her child isn't in it. Her husband isn't it it. Doesn't sound too great to me, frankly. Now, be a good dog, and go do your tricks."

Beatrice laughed, nodded, and headed out of the trailer. Casey stood there in the doorway, finishing her beer, and smirked to herself. Of all the people to come to the rescue, they all had to admit, Casey was last on their list. Turns out everyone is good at something.

                                                                                                            ***

                                                                                                 3 WEEKS LATER

"I'm going," Michelle said, knocking on Bea's office door. Beatrice looked up from her desk and smiled, gesturing for her to come inside, which she did. As Michelle took a seat on the opposite side of the desk, she asked, "everything okay?"

"More than okay," Bea said, "I mean, I'm still very sad, but I'm dealing with it. Anyway, that isn't why I wanted you to come in. I just wanted you to know that next season, production is gonna be a bit different. We're gonna hire more people, so we don't have to solely rely on you, Eliza and Casey for almost everything. You all deserve a bit of a break."

"I'm fine with that," Michelle said, "anything else?"

"You doing anything tonight?" Bea asked.

"Eliza and I are going to dinner," Michelle said, "then we'll probably go to her dads and build some trains together. Nothing too exciting, but it's good, cause we don't really need excitement. I'll see you when I see you, Bea. Have a good weekend."

With that, Michelle stood up and exited, leaving Michelle there alone. Liam was the last one to leave, and soon enough it was just Beatrice alone at the studio. She told Leslie she'd be home before 9pm, and here it was, almost 9. She figured she should call and let her know she'd be a tiny bit late. Beatrice picked up her cell phone, but it was dead. She sighed. Beatrice picked up her landline and dialed, getting the machine, so she left a message. She had told Stephanie that she'd help get these budgetary balances figured out before the weekend, and she was almost done, but her stomach was hurting. She could use a snack. Beatrice stood up, pulled her jacket on and headed out of the studio. Just outside was a small cart that was open late, so she ordered some nachos and a drink, then sat down at one of the tables on the patio where employees usually had lunch and munched on her treats. After a minute she heard the sound of a bike approaching the table, and turned to see a young girl, probably about 11, pulling her helmet off.

"Hello," Bea said, "can I help you?"

"H...hi," the girl said, "can I sit down?"

"Of course," Bea said, patting the seat beside her. The girl set her bike against the table, placed her helmet on it and sat down. Bea pushed her thing of nachos towards her, but the girl declined. Bea shrugged and asked, "are you lost? Do you need help?"

"I wanted to go to your show, but we couldn't afford it," the girl said, "so I...I looked up where you worked and thought I'd ride over here. I didn't actually think I'd find you."

"Well, you did," Bea said, smiling warmly, "do you want anything? An autograph, a selfie?"

The girl looked embarrassed, and glanced away. After a moment, she spoke again.

"I don't wanna grow up, can you make that happen?" she asked, taking Bea by surprise; she elaborated, "I'm gonna be in all honors classes next year, I'm one of the top students at my school, and so I'll be around all these other smart kids. But they...they all dress like tiny grown ups. They read big books. I can do the same, I just don't want to. I like being a kid. You make me feel like it's okay to continue being a kid, cause you're an adult and look at what you do for a living."

"It's absolutely okay to be a kid," Beatrice said, "don't ever let someone convince you otherwise. I was like you, when I was little. I was a very smart girl, and I read a lot and I spent almost all my free time with my parents cause they didn't expect me to behave the way my peers would've. You're not alone in how you feel, I promise. Are you sure you don't want a snack or a...a piece of merch or anything? An autograph?"

The girl shook her head.

"I already got what I wanted," she said, smiling, making Bea smile too.

So Bea and the girl sat there, and they talked about her schooling and other interests and hobbies. Bea told her how she came to be the dog she knew on TV, and the girl shared with Bea her hopeful eventual career plans. In a way, Casey was right. Beatrice was a parent, whether she meant to be or not, to all those kids who needed someone but didn't either have someone or want to approach their own parents for whatever reason. And that was all Beatrice wanted, really, was for no child to feel alone. She'd never really felt alone, and she wanted every child to have that level of dedication in their adolescence from the adults around them. They deserved that much, and so much more. Every person she'd hired had, in some way, helped her learn how to be an even better person, it seemed. Michelle's illness taught her how to approach life with gusto again. Eliza's loss taught her how to cope with her own, and process it even if in albeit somewhat unhealthy ways. And Casey's outright refusal to bend to the worldviews of others taught her that sometimes you just need to do what you have to, whether you want to or not. And now this little girl, this girls disinterest in growing up taught her that it was okay to always be a child on the inside. She really knew how to pick 'em.

It was funny, Bea thought, for being the one who was meant to be the teacher, she was the one being taught.

John Krickett had written a number of eulogies in his life.

He'd written one for his brother, one for his boyfriend, he'd even written a small thing for Polly, but wrtiing something for Boris...that just felt wrong. Sitting at his desk at the church, he just couldn't bring himself to come up with words to describe Boris, and especially their weird relationship. He heard someone knock on his door and he looked up to see Sister Jenn coming in in her street clothes - hip hugging jeans and a mustard yellow turtleneck - approaching his desk cautiously, almost as if he were a wild animal she didn't want to spook.

"How's it goin'?" she asked.

"Well, for it to be going well, it'd have to be going at all, so," Father Krickett said, making Jenn laugh.

"Do you want some help?" she asked.

"Nah, this is far too personal," Father Krickett said, "but thanks for offering, I appeciate it."

"Well, everything is finished here for the day, so I think I'm gonna go, if that's okay," Jenn said, "I have a date."

As she turned to leave, Father Krickett set his pen back down and called after her, causing her to stop and look back at him. He cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair.

"...how..." he started, "...how do you...process something like this? It's weird, because...because, whether it's my brother of my boyfriend, I spent considerable time with both of them, but...but some reason it's different with Boris. We have a much deeper relationship, somehow, and I don't know how to sum that up in an eulogy. A eulogy is supposed to be short, sweet, to the point. But that isn't what a relationship with someone is, whether it's platonic or romantic, so how do you process this and make it poignant?"

"Well," Sister Jenn said, "I guess, maybe, just focus on what you've managed to teach one another, shaped eachother into who you are now. I think that's the best approach, honestly. Because that's what the takeaway from any relationship, platonic or romantic, is, right? How you change one another. How has Boris changed you?"

Father Krickett chewed his lip. That was a good question, how had Boris changed him? He knew he had, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. He nodded, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed Sister Jenn, who turned on her heel and exited swiftly, excited to get to the apartment and pick Whittle up for their date night. However, Whittle, at the moment, was a tad preoccupied with watching Boris and Melody talk as she prepared for her night out. Boris was sitting on the couch beside Melody, both eating honey roasted peanuts from a container and talking quietly, almost as if to not be overheard. Whittle pulled her compact from her purse and looked at herself in its mirror, checking her makeup one final time when the front door opened and Sister Jenn trotted happily in. She walked right up to Whittle in the kitchen and, leaning up on her tip toes, kissed her, making Whittle smirk.

"...are you okay with leaving them here alone, together?" Jenn asked, and Whittle shrugged.

"Can't give up my whole life just for the sake of others, right?" Whittle asked.

"...you're a nurse."

"Right, probably not the best example," Whittle said, the both of them laughing. Whittle took Jenn's hand in her own, their fingers entwined, and said goodbye as they exited the apartment. Once the door was shut, Boris groaned and stood up.

"Finally, I thought she'd never leave," he said, going into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of Whiskey and two glasses, bringing them back to the living room and pouring them each a glass before sitting back down on the couch beside Melody.

"You know," Melody said, her voice less hoarse than before now, gaining some of its volume back, "I wasn't drunk when I decided to try to kill myself. I think far too many people assume suicide is often attempted while drunk, but I rarely drink. I hate the assumption that one can't just want to die without the help of intoxication. That life simply can't be that painful."

"I agree, it's laughable," Boris replied, sipping his slowly, "I used to drink a bit, but not much anymore, but now I'm wondering why not. I've got a time limit. Might as well enjoy what time I've got left, right? At this point, vices can't hurt me anymore than I'm already hurtin'."

Melody snickered and nodded in agreement. She took another handful of peanuts and dumped them into her mouth, chewing for a bit before getting a sad look on her face.

"What?" Boris asked.

"The thing is..." Melody said, "I don't even know that I wanted to die. I just...didn't want to live. I wish there were some sort of middle ground, you know? Some sort of plane in between where you don't have be alive or dead. I guess a coma might constitute that, but even still. I just wanna go back to what it must've been like before I was born, whatever that might have been."

Boris nodded, listening, as Melody continued.

"It infuriates me that people just assume that life is a good thing for any and everyone, regardless of their situation or feelings on the matter," Melody continued, "They simply can't comprehend the idea that, for some people, existence isn't a good thing. That they didn't have good families, that...that no matter how hard they try, or how long they try for, it won't get better. That being alive is simply being in pain. We grant that sort of understanding to the terminally ill, but if you have a lifelong mental illness, aren't you also terminally ill? Why validate one then ignore another?"

"I have to admit, you bring up an excellent point," Boris said, "but the fact of the matter remains that it's their narrow minded tunnel vision of life that gives them that perception. They can't see from the shoes of another, because they can only experience their own. Even at their lowest, they can't fathom there being something lower. Now, some can, certainly. Some are capable of tremendous empathy to the level that, yes, they'll recognize that for some people, being alive, ill or not, is painful and not worthwhile. But those people are rare, it seems. Ultimately, I agree with you, that one should be allowed to take their own life in their own hands regardless of the passive aggressive manipulative 'what about your loved ones' mentality, especially when most of the people who feel this way might not even have loved ones to consider."

"And if their loved ones cared so much, why don't they help more?" Melody asked, and Boris nodded, pointing at her.

"Exactly. Talk is cheap. It costs nothing to say 'I'll be there for you' but when the time comes, when the chips are down, rarely do they follow through because that takes commitment, action. People don't like putting their money where their mouth is because it forces them reckon with the acknowledgement that they might not actually be as good as people as they'd always considered themselves to be and who wants to downplay their own morality?"

Melody smiled softly, nodding as she ate more peanuts. For all the folks in the world she could've been saved by, it just happened to be the one who really understood her. There was some kind of sick irony in that, she thought.

                                                                                                     ***

John, his legs up on his desk as he smoked a cigar, couldn't come up with what he wanted to say because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to say anything at all.

Why share something so personal, and make it everyones business? He should keep it close to his chest. This was something he and Boris shared, not something Boris shared with everyone else. John and Boris had been through the mill together, so why, at the very end, should he allow that history to be viewed by others when it was rightfully just theirs? He exhaled smoke and sat upright. Still...he thought...still there was the matter that Boris had other people in his life. Others who could speak for him, speak of him. Surely John wasn't the only one tasked with writing something for the eventual funeral. Carol had to be going through the same motions. Maybe even Burt, or Whittle. He thought back to Polly. He wondered what Polly might have to say, had it been Boris who'd died that night instead of her. Surely she'd have done what he ultimately did, and make it into a joke, because that was the sort of relationship they'd had.

John sighed and stood upright, beginning to pace, one hand in his coat pocket as he smoked his cigar. Maybe Jenn was right, maybe he should just focus on how they changed one another because, for all things considered, both John and Boris - and both had acknowledged this regularly - were not the same people they were when they had met. John had let some of his barriers to connection down, while Boris had grown to take responsibility for his actions, both present and past. They'd truly helped one another turn new leaves, and grow as human beings, and that was something that only really deep friendships managed to achieve.

What had John really taken from their relationship? The ability to truly care for another person again, that was for sure. Before Boris, John was coasting on his skills as a preist to care about others, without getting too attached. But now...now he was truly capable of being attached to another person. But the thing was...could he manage to be attached to another person that wasn't Boris? That was the real question, because while he'd gained new worldviews by being involved with Boris, could he truly take that and apply it to another person? He loved the old man more than he was willing to openly state, and he was worried that that wouldn't transfer to being close to anyone else.

What could one say about a man who managed to help you feel anything at all again?

That was the question he had to answer.

                                                                                                     ***

Jenn and Whittle were sitting on a small wooden balcony outside of a seafood restaurant, waiting for their food to arrive. Underneath the table, Jenn was running her foot up against Whittle's leg, making the both of them chuckle. Whittle raised her wine glass to her lips and took a very long drink, while Jenn batted her eyes at her, making Whittle blush.

"You're so damn cute," Whittle said as she set her glass down, "...it's nice to be able to openly say that. I stayed with my boyfriend for so long cause I was scared of trying anything else, and being bisexual seems to net you a rather negative reception more often than not, people wanting you to choose a side for some reason like sexuality is a sports team, but it's nice to be able to just say, now, that you're so damn cute and not feel embarrassed about admitting it."

"I understand," Jenn said, playing with her utensils absentmindedly as she looked at the table while she spoke; "I pushed myself so far into religion to avoid the things I felt, that when I started to feel something for you, something I could not ignore no matter how hard I tried, I knew I was screwed. But that was kind of the whole point John and I had about making a new church. A place where you can be yourself, and God loves you regardless. Hopefully it'll be finished before Boris...well..."

"Yeah," Whittle mumbled, trying not to think about the unavoidable inevitability that was heading straight for them.

"What do we do, when, ya know, that time comes?" Jenn asked.

"You could move in," Whittle said, "and we could turn his room into a kind of religious study if you want."

"You don't think his ghost would take offense at that? Haunt us for it?" Jenn asked, the both of them snickering.

"No, I think he'd find the whole thing very moving," Whittle said, "...the thing I've learned about Boris during the tenure of our friendship is that...he might not believe something himself, but he'll never shame you for believing in it. Hell, he'll even openly defend your beliefs against others who might agree with him initially in his disbelief. That's true friendship. He'd think it's beautiful to see us move forward, utilizing the space for something new and good."

Jenn nodded, thinking about what it would take, emotionally and otherwise, to make that a reality. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair.

"When I was a little girl, well not little little but you know, like a tween," Jenn said, "I remember being in Sunday School and learning about Joan of Arc, and instead of thinking what a hero she was, albeit perhaps not in the traditional sense, how pretty I found her. I disclosed this to one of the girls I was friends with there, who then shared it with everyone else, and I was kicked out of that particular Sunday School class. My mother never understood why because, thankfully, nobody told her, but I learned to keep that to myself after that moment."

Jenn's eyes rose, meeting Whittle's again, and she smiled warmly as she reached across the table and held Whittle's hand.

"But I don't like being hidden anymore," she continued, "and getting to know Boris, knowing that he hid himself from the world as well...I don't wanna be like that. I want to be happy and out and proud, maybe not super vocally but on some sort of level, you know? I used to lay in bed and fantasize about what it would be like to have a really milquetoast life with you, just doing ordinary, mundane domesticity. Shopping for furniture and...and stuff like that. Cause the house I grew up in was so damn bleak, emotionally distant, that I didn't have that experience and I want that warmth."

Whittle blushed and Jenn looked away again, almost as if embarrassed.

"...I am so in love with you," Jenn said in a hushed voice, "in...in ways I didn't know I could be, and that makes me so happy."

"Yet again, you're so damn cute," Whittle replied, picking up Jenn's hand and kissing it softly.

Whittle had to admit, she'd never seen herself giving into her bisexuality, and allowing herself to be with a woman, but Jenn...Jenn was so comforting, so soft and caring, how could she not fall for that? Especially in times such as these, where the future was fraught with such uncertainty, where her oldest, best friend was preparing for the end...how could she somehow ignore the gentle kindness that was right in front of her, willing to smother her in affection? She was glad she caved, because she couldn't see herself with anyone else now. Soon their plates arrived, and they spent the night sharing seafood with one another, at times feeding eachother playfully from across the table, and Whittle realized now what she'd been missing the entire time she worked at the hospice.

That place, as one would expect, was so steralized that it had infected the whole of her being.

And she didn't want to live a sterile life anymore.

                                                                                                    ***

Melody and Boris had, at some point, finished the bottle of Whiskey and Boris was now laying on the floor against the front of the couch while Melody stretched out across it fully. Neither one was speaking, but it wasn't like they had to. They each knew what the other was thinking. That was the small comfort they shared, was the ability to feel the same way about the biggest things.

"I used to have this little book," Melody said, "of daily affirmations. These stupid little phrases that you repeat throughout the day, one for each day, as if a few words were going to make life more bearable. They didn't help. I mean, I tricked myself into believing they might, but the moment I lost my book, that's when I realized I was lying to myself."

Boris nodded, listening, as she continued.

"If you have to lie to yourself every single day to keep through it," Melody said, "then maybe it's better to face the facts that you're just incapable of being happy. I'm just incapable of being happy. All I feel is fear and sadness and anger. I've never once felt happiness. I've lied, and said I do, or played pretend so as not to upset others around me, but the fact of the matter is that I cannot feel joy."

"Joy is overrated," Boris said, "joy is only reserved for specific situations. Birthdays. Graduations. Weddings. The moments that it's socially unacceptable to be unhappy for, regardless of how sad you actually are. Which is hilarious because each one of those things...they come with abject sadness attached to them. You celebrate a birthday but you hate getting older. You celebrate a graduation but now your childhood is over. You celebrate a wedding, fully acknowledging it'll likely never happen to you. Yet we're supposed to feel joy over these things? Laughable."

Melody nodded, digging into the container for more nuts, scooping what was left into her palm.

"And what's worse," Boris continued, "is that the singular moment you might feel relief, even joy, is your own death. The release from all the pain. And yet you can't even feel it cause you're fuckin' dead. The universe is just an enormous joke on those of us capable of seeing it for what it is."

Melody nodded again and finished chewing, clearing her throat.

"I'm not a bad person for trying," she said.

"Not at all. If anything, you're brave. That doesn't mean it's for everyone," Boris said, "but it is for some people."

"My parents...they used to take me to church sometimes, mostly for holidays, and I always remember being told God loved me, but only if I lived by his rules. If I killed myself, somehow I was sinning, even though it's what was best for me. How can God be all loving, then turn around and be judgemental for something that's right for me? Is there even a reason to believe in anything?"

"...I think there is," Boris said, surprising her as he added, "but not for the reasons you might think. If God wanted us to live by rigid rules, he wouldn't have given us free will. So take the comfort that there's something out there that loves you unconditionally, and it makes the universe a lot less hopeless."

Melody slowly nodded, taking this in. She hadn't expected this misery fest to devolve into a religious debate, but she had to acknowledge that Boris's statement had some logic to it. If she ended her life, and there was some kind of afterlife, would she arrive before God and be welcomed with open arms? Would he be understanding? She wanted to think so. Was that preferable to the nothing that death likely actually was? Yes, in some ways. Peace was peace, regardless of how it was perceived.

"I just wanna stop being in pain," Melody said.

"Amen to that," Boris remarked.

                                                                                                       ***

Whittle and Jenn were laying on Jenn's couch, Whittle on top of her, holding her face, kissing her deeply and warmly, gently. Jenn couldn't contain herself, letting out soft moans and squeaks of happiness at this intimacy. Whittle pulled away for a moment, and rested her forehead against Jenn's, their fingers laced together. Jenn breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath, and in the dim light of her living room, Jenn finally understood what she'd been missing all these years by denying herself her truth.

"I guess it's true what they say," Whittle said quietly, "you treat a girl to a nice dinner and she will put out."

Jenn cackled, which made Whittle laugh a bit as she continued to kiss down Jenn's soft neck. Both had opened themselves up to the world again, and found solace within one another. This was the exact thing Father Krickett was trying to grapple with himself in his office still, sitting at his desk, pen in hand, cigar stubbed out in the ashtray beside him, as he tried to put into words what Boris meant to him. He bit his lip, chewed for a moment, then started writing. He only wrote one line, but he felt like that one line was enough, at least for a time being. Boris, being a writer, would understand how hard it could be to find the right words to explain something.

"Boris Wachowski was here," he'd written, and frankly, what else needed to be said. Sure it sounded like something a teenager would write on a bathroom stall, but...sometimes flowery language wasn't needed. Sometimes bluntness got the job done.

And with that, John Krickett got up and left his office. He'd return tomorrow, likely work on it more because one sentence didn't equate an entire eulogy, but hell, it was a start, and a start was better than nothing. Even God, he thought to himself, when creating the universe, had to start somewhere.

"Are your parents gonna be okay with us bringing all this stuff back with you?" Rachel asked as she and Sun Rai helped Kelly pack. Her time in the hospital was over, and she was being released to her parents care until such time she could return to her own life. Kelly, turning around in her wheelchair, shrugged.

"I mean, places you stay in expect you to take stuff, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, like hotels, not hospitals," Rachel remarked.

"Hey, I don't think anyone else is gonna wanna use my colostomy bag, okay?" Kelly replied, the both of them laughing as Sun Rai picked up yet another suitcase and carried it out into the hall and towards the parking lot. Rachel walked around behind Kelly and, gripping the handles of the wheelchair, started to push her out of the room.

"You gonna miss being here?" Rachel asked, "Being waited on hand and foot?"

"Well, you know my mom, she was always the doting type, so I'll likely be given the same treatment there," Kelly said.

"You're right, I remember when I would spend the night at your house and she would order whatever we wanted, and then bring it to us in your room on plates, with drinks and everything," Rachel said, chuckling, "your mom is pretty damn great."

All things considered, being a plane crash had been a boon to Kelly. She'd gotten her best friend back, her family was going to take care of her, she was on paid vacation while insurance covered her medical costs and, probably best of all, she didn't die from it. She really was one lucky girl.

                                                                                                         ***

Calvin opened his eyes and groaned.

He'd been sleeping even worse than before, somehow. He didn't think that was possible, but it turned out it was. He dragged himself out of bed and into the upstairs hall bathroom where he washed his face and combed his hair before heading downstairs in a pair of shorts a t-shirt, only to find, of all people, Wyatt sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with his parents. Barry looked up upon Calvin's entrance and grinned, motioning for him to join them. Calvin slunk into the kitchen, feeling increasingly paranoid, as he seated himself at the table. His mother poured him some coffee and then got him some of the breakfast she'd made for everyone else, before seating herself once again.

"What are you doing here?" Calvin asked as he used his fork to scoop scrambled eggs and lift it to his mouth.

"Just having breakfast," Wyatt replied gleefully, "just wanted to hang out today, so I figured the best option was uninvited, cause it doesn't really give you a chance to say no."

Calvin murmured under his breath as he continued to eat breakfast, watching Wyatt talk with his parents. Calvin felt sick to his stomach the entire time, and not from his moms cooking, wishing Wyatt hadn't invaded his personal space like this. It was one thing to come to The Shed or come around when his folks weren't here, but to put himself smack dab in the middle of their home life, that was...invasive. Then again, he didn't have a leg to stand on, defense wise...lord knew Calvin himself had interjected in plenty of moments he didn't belong. Karma really was a bitch.

After breakfast, Wyatt and Calvin got into Wyatt's car, and together, they drove away from the house and, slowly, away from the town. As they got further and further out into the surrounding nothing, Calvin fiddled with the radio dials, looking for anything to ease the painful silence that had filled the car around them. After a bit, they were out on the long, winding roads that would eventually lead to ranches and their ilk. Calvin sighed and rested his chin on his fist as he glanced out the window.

"I was having lunch the other day," Wyatt said, "started thinking about your sister. How's she doing?"

"Why would you care now?" Calvin asked.

"Maybe because it's not hard to learn empathy once you become associated with so many people in such a scary situation, in which any of them could easily get hurt," Wyatt remarked, shrugging his shoulders, "just a guess though."

Calvin didn't answer for a bit, then he sighed and spoke.

"She's alright," Calvin said, "she spent some time in a hospital for her mental health, voluntarily of course, and now she's out again and she's doing writing again. Been submitting stuff. Been sending some to me to ask for my opinions."

"She still writing about werewolves?" Wyatt asked, smirking, making Calvin laugh.

"Yeah, yes she is," Calvin replied, "We try to ignore that fact when we tell people what she does because, well, let's face it, it's a bit embarrassing."

"I mean, she has an interest and god bless her for sticking to it," Wyatt said, "got far more committment than most people probably."

Calvin smiled, nodding. He was protective of his sister, and he knew how badly Wyatt had hurt her emotionally, but it was nice that Wyatt still thought about her from time to time. He thought that, maybe, deep down Wyatt felt bad about how things had ended, and that in his own warped way he did still care about her in some capacity. Truthfully, Wyatt did, but that wasn't why he was here. He was here to ensure that Calvin understood he could never screw up the way he had before again, and if that meant getting him to trust him by discussing his family, he'd do that. Wyatt didn't like how suave he'd become at extortion, but dammit. Someone had to keep Calvin on a leash.

                                                                                                         ***

"You have a really cool bedroom," Sun Rai said as she set down the last suitcase in Kelly's room.

Kelly's room was, indeed, pretty cool. It had a slanted ceiling, and a large circular window at the end so she could see out over the street. It also hadn't really been touched since she'd moved out and into her own place, thanks to her parents always hoping she'd move back home (they were sentimental, not disbelieving in her abilities), which meant that how it had been when she was in school was still exactly how it was, band posters and all. Rachel sighed and sat down on the bed, catching her breath.

"It's one flight of eight stairs," Sun Rai said, looking at her, shaking her head and laughing, "you're so out of shape."

"As long as I look hot what do I care about my physical capabilities?" Rachel asked as Kelly wheeled herself to her desk.

"All my scrapbooking stuff is still here," Kelly said, "maybe I can take that up again. That's definitely a 'sit in one place for hours and do nothing' kind of activity. Maybe you guys could come over and help some nights. It'd be nice to have company that isn't my parents. Don't get me wrong, they're great, I love them, but, ya know, they're my parents."

Rachel and Sun Rai both laughed, which made Kelly feel more accepted.

"Sadly," Sun Rai said, "I'm dealing with a lot right now with my fathers health, so that isn't so much an option for me, but if I have the time I'll definitely do it. Rachel, however, you just have work so you should be free more often right?"

"Yeah, I could totally come hang out," Rachel said, sitting upright again, "that'd be a lot of fun. We could order a pizza and play old music from high school and do lots of scrapbooking."

"You two were total nerds weren't you?" Sun Rai asked, laughing, "no wonder you were best friends."

Rachel and Kelly exchanged a look and smiled at one another, both chuckling. In hindsight, it wasn't surprising in the slightest. While Rachel had always been the more socially acceptable and outgoing of the two - and even then not by much - they had both, yes, been pretty dorky and reserved and found solace in one another, even well before high school. Even though she would never openly admit it, because she hated being seen as weak, the split, which had been instigated by Rachel, had hurt her so much more than she'd ever let on. To lose the one real friend you'd always had...hell, it wasn't until Calvin and Wyatt that she felt like she had that sort of thing again, but even now, they didn't compare to Kelly.

"We're still best friends," Rachel said, making Kelly blush as she added, "that's why we made friendship bracelets."

"Oh my god, do you still have yours?!" Kelly asked loudly, cackling and Rachel held up her right wrist.

"Always have, always will," Rachel said, all three of them laughing.

                                                                                                       ***

Calvin and Wyatt had stopped to get gas.

While Wyatt filled the car up, Calvin came back from the interior of the gas station, opening up his wrapped in foil gas station burrito and biting into it. Wyatt finished the deed, paid at the machine and together they got back into the car. Wyatt put the keys into the ignition and started the car up, pulling away again, back onto the road to nowhere in particular.

"For what it's worth," Wyatt said, "I never felt good about how it ended. I take full responsibility, as I should. She deserved better. But my dad, man. He was...is....an overbearing son of a bitch who can make a person feel bad about something they shouldn't feel bad about. Don't get me wrong, I love my wife, I am happy with the family we have, but...your sister was a great partner and she taught me a lot."

"Yeah, well," Calvin said, taking another bite, "she's not interested in communicating with anyone anymore. She can see how easily she can be used and manipulated now, so she just figures what's the point."

"Jesus, I'm so sorry, I screwed up so bad," Wyatt said, "but I'm willing to take the blame, and learn from it, grow. You can't continue to make the same mistake repeatedly, claim you're changed from it and then go right back to doing it, you understand what I mean?"

Calvin's eyes slowly headed over to Wyatt, and he sighed.

"Alright," Calvin said, wrapping the rest of his burrito up and setting it in his lap, "come out and say it."

"You can't do what you did again," Wyatt said sternly.

"You don't think I'm aware of that?" Calvin asked.

"At some point, someone is going to open an investigation into what happened, and it might very well lead to us. That's something we're going to have to deal with, but even still, Calvin, you can't do anything like that again. I know you were pissed at Wattson, I get it, and hell, he and even the Evergreens kind of deserved it, but...we can't continue down this path. We need to course correct."

Calvin sighed again and rubbed his chin, his somewhat beared face, and then looked out the window.

"You know what Amelia did after you dumped her?" Calvin asked, "she spent weeks crying in her room, refusing to go to school again. Finally, our parents, not knowing how to handle it, asked me to go in and see what I could do about it, and when I talked to her about it, you wanna know what she asked me? She asked me what it was about her that made people hurt her the way they did. Was she naive, too trusting, just plain stupid? I couldn't give her an answer. But you weren't the first person to hurt her. She had people pretend to be her friend to use her class, people feign romantic  interest in her simply to humiliate her, so while you were genuine in your interest in her, you were the straw that broke the camels back."

Wyatt felt his eyes water up, and he wanted to cry. He didn't want to be responsible for a woman losing all her self worth.

"But," Calvin said, "I just told her that nothing was wrong with her, when, in reality, that's not the truth. I lied to her though, because that seemed the best course of action. Why let her feel even worse when she was already at her lowest? Truth be told, yeah, there was something wrong with her. She was too naive. Too trusting. Too desperate. She's sick. She's extremely sick in the head. But I wasn't about to lay blame for others actions at her feet, even if she was somewhat responsible at times. So I did what any big brother would do. I covered it up. I made it the fault of others, because it was mostly the fault of others. You weren't the worst person she dealt with Wyatt, but you hurt the worst because of your genuinness, and I don't think she'll ever get over that. So sure, I've made mistakes, things I can't take back, but if I can't keep making the same mistake, neither can you."

Wyatt pulled the car over to the side of the road and buried his face in his arms on the steering wheel, sobbing.

"We both have to be better," Calvin said, as he reached out and put his hand on Wyatt's shoulder, comforting him.

Even above Scarlett, Rachel, Kelly, anyone else, the one person he'd never wanted to hurt was Amelia simply because he knew how fragile and delicate she had been. And yet he had. He'd not only hurt her, hell, he'd outright broken her. Calvin might forgive him, but could he ever forgive himself?

"Let's both try harder," Calvin said, and Wyatt nodded.

"I like that arrangement," Wyatt said softly.

                                                                                                         ***

Sun Rai panted, breathing heavily as Rachel kissed down her neck.

After having dinner at Kelly's, they made their way back to the apartment, and for some reason, Rachel couldn't get the idea of sex of her mind. Maybe she just needed the release, but she took Sun Rai to the bedroom immediately upon getting into the apartment.

"You're doing such a good thing," Sun Rai said as Rachel kissed down to her collarbone, unbuttoning her shirt, "because most people would just turn tail and run, not help their friend like this. People like to act like they'll be there no matter what for someone, but truth is, most people know talk is cheap."

"Yeah, well," Rachel said, kissing Sun Rai's now bare shoulders, "I do what I can for those that need it."

After the sex, Sun Rai was asleep, but Rachel couldn't sleep. All she could think about was Kelly, sitting alone in her bedroom. Rachel climbed out of bed, headed into the living room and grabbed the cordless phone, dialing Kelly's house number. Surprisingly, Kelly picked up, and Rachel remembered the old cheeseburger phone she had in her bedroom.

"I didn't think you would be up," Rachel said, "I thought maybe you'd fall asleep early, cause, ya know, it's exhausting moving somewhere."

"Well, to be fair, I didn't do much of the manual labor," Kelly remarked, the both of them laughing. Rache lounged on her couch and lit a cigarette, taking a puff.

"So what are you doing?" Rachel asked.

"Nothin' really," Kelly said, "there's a really bad horror movie on Channel 48."

Rachel grabbed her remote and turned the TV on, then flipped to that channel. Together they sat and watched, ridiculing it over the phone, just like they used to when they were teenagers. It was so easy, Rachel realized, so surprisingly easy actually, to fall right back into that same relationship you once had with someone if you really cared about one another. In spite of what had happened, even in spite of the recent events, Rachel had always cared deeply for Kelly, almost like a sister, and Kelly felt the same. Rachel thought about her time with Wyatt's family having dinner, being friends with Scarlett through their art appreciation, her love with Sun Rai, and now her rekindled friendship with Kelly, falling right back into the same reporte that they'd always had and she realized that, even without her parents, she had a family of sorts, and that counted for something.

They made fun of the movie well into the early morning, and it was the best either girl had felt in months.

"Imagine children getting to meet their idol," Beatrice said, "they get to talk to Bea, ask her questions, get their photo taken. That's all the after event. First we put on a show, and then we have the meet and greet. That's what I want to do. So many children never get to meet their heroes, those who push them to strive for greatness, and I think that's unfair. I don't wanna be distant. I wanna be in their lives. A force of good."

Liam, Steph, Michelle, Casey and Eliza were seated in the meeting room as Beatrice explained her plan, but none of them, truth be told, were sold on it at all. Course, nobody wanted to be the one who said that.

"I realize that we're already a force of good, just by being on the air for them, but we can do more. I wanna do more," Bea continued, "because...because some children don't have parents. Some children had bad parents. Some childrens parents die. I want to create an open line of communication, and this is the first step in that direction, I think. No child should feel alone and scared and confused."

"I don't disagree," Steph said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, "but I don't necessarily agree that this is the best way of going about it."

"A live show is a lot of work, Bea," Liam said, "are you sure you're up for that sort of engagement? Dedication?"

"When aren't I?" Bea asked, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. She had a point, she was always up for whatever  it took, and nobody could argue that claim no matter what they had to say in response. Bea sighed and shook her head slightly, tossing her bangs from her face, adding, "look, I know it's a lot of work, but it's...it's important to me and these sorts of things are good for what we do. Almost every popular childrens brand has, at one time or another, done a live show of some kind. I hate to use marketing terms, but it 'grows the brand', and so from your perspective, Steph, that's a good thing."

"I'm not all about money, you know," Steph replied, sounding hurt, "I appreciate the artistry that goes into what you and everyone else on the network does. I don't have a money boner."

"Money Boner is my favorite punk rock song," Casey interjected, making Michelle laugh, which in turn made Casey blush.

"I just think there's others factors to consider here. We'd have to put the show on hold while we do this," Steph said, "unless you have that many shows in the hopper."

"Our finale is coming up in a few weeks, we start preparations now, then we announce it once the finale is out, then that gives children something to look forward to in the interim while they wait for new episodes," Bea said, "it isn't rocket science, you guys, it's simple economics. We give kids what they deserve, and we continue to make money even while not producing actual content. Not that live shows aren't actual content, but you know what I mean."

Once again, nobody could argue with this. Beatrice had clearly done her homework.

"I'll run it up the ladder," Steph said half heartedly.

"Aren't you top rung?" Casey asked, sipping on her soda.

"...yes," Steph replied, before briskly gathering her things and leaving the room.

"Weird lady," Casey said upon Steph's exit, shaking her head.

                                                                                                       ***

Keagan was walking through the hall with Serena under her arm, heading for the set department, hoping to run into Michelle, unaware that she was in a meeting. She had already checked The Hole and, upon realizing Eliza wasn't there, figured they must be in the set department, which was why she was headed there now. As she passed by a small group of well dressed white women, she heard them lower their voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying. She figured it was best to ignore it.

Keagan pushed open the doors to the set department and looked around, then sighed when it slowly dawned on her that neither Michelle nor Eliza were here. Thankfully, however, her gaze caught sight of Liam, of all people. Liam had left the meeting shortly after Steph, and decided to hang out in the set department doing behind the scenes design management. Keagan approached him and tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to turn to face her and jolt back a little upon seeing Serena.

"Wow," he said, "that's uncanny."

"What, do all puppets look the same to you?" Keagan asked, making him chuckle; she then asked, "where's Michelle? Where's Eliza? Where is everyone?"

"We had an impromptu meeting," Liam said, sipping his coffee and adjusting his glasses, "Michelle and Eliza probably went to lunch afterwards. Why?"

"I just wanted Michelle to actually see the puppet Eliza and I came up with," Keagan said, sighing, leaning against the stage and looking at Serena's face, adding, "...sometimes it feels like I don't even matter. Like everyone else is so much more important to the production than I am, like I'm just here cause I helped Michelle track you guys down."

"Hey," Liam said, leaning beside her and touching her shoulder, "you're important, Keagan. Don't think like that. Everyone who works here works here because Beatrice saw their importance, and you're certainly on the ground floor of that. Keep in mind we wouldn't even be here without you and Michelle. You guys are a team, even if she has Eliza these days."

"I guess," Keagan said, "it's just hard to feel that way when I'm not even invited to meetings and stuff. I feel so...ancillary."

"Yeah, well, that's what a lifetime with Bea is like," Liam said, which cause Keagan to raise an eyebrow. She'd rarely heard Liam speak ill of Bea, and even then, when he did, she could still feel the love behind his statement. Whatever it was he was suggesting, he didn't mean anything mean with it, she knew that much. Liam added, "listen, if I see either of them before you do, I'll let them know you're looking for them. Until then, you wanna stick around here and help me figure out some set work?"

"Sure, that sounds fun," Keagan said, grinning.

At least, if nothing else, Liam always had her back.

                                                                                                         ***

"You don't really think it's a good idea, do you?" Michelle asked, sipping her soup across from Eliza at their usual luncheon spot.

"I don't, but not for the reasons you might think," Eliza said, "cause, uh, one might assume that I'm against it because of the strenous aspects putting on such a live show would be, but that isn't the case. I think she's only doing it as a reaction to the grief of losing her mom. I know because when I lost my mom, I did a lot of stupid stuff too cause I thought they were good ideas since I was clouded with loss, blinded by grief."

"Like what?" Michelle asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin and setting her spoon down in her bowl.

"Well," Eliza said, clearing her throat, "for a while, and this is so dumb I know but...I used to go to loss groups, for parents who, like, had lost children, and I would pretend that each of the women speaking there were my mom, and were talking about me. I needed to put it into perspective from her side, like, what if she had survived and I hadn't. I know it's really sick, but..."

"It's not sick," Michelle said, shaking her head, "you're not sick, sweetie, that's...you said it yourself, you do things that don't really make sense in hindsight after such a great loss. Bea was close with her parents, she's just going through the shit, you know? Same as you were. The difference is, you know how to better channel your emotions into your work, while Bea tries but just lets her emotions take over her work. That's the innate difference between you two."

Eliza smiled, looking down at her hands.

"I think," she said, "you're the first person to ever told me I'm not sick, other than Beatrice, and my dad, and my dad only said it after the accident because he didn't want me blaming myself. I don't know that I really believes he believes that. Beatrice I believe. You I really believe. Thank you."

Michelle smiled back. It was weird, she thought, being in a relationship since she'd never planned on being in one. Actually taking the time to know someone, comfort them when they needed it, boost their self esteem back up. And it wasn't one sided. Anytime Michelle felt distraught and turned to Eliza for help, Eliza returned it threefold. It was a fully functioning, well oiled machine they had built, and she wouldn't give it up for anything else in the world. But it was still strange. Michelle hadn't seen her parents interact much before her father left, so she simply never had any real idea of what a healthy relationship looked like. And yet...and yet she knew she was better at it, far better at it at that, than her mother ever could be, and that was consolation enough.

Michelle got out from her side of the booth and slid in beside Eliza, who looked surprised but bit her lip happily. Michelle put her hands on Eliza's face and leaned in, pressing her lips to hers and kissing her, Eliza happily kissing her back. Public displays of affection be damned, they were both just so happy to have one another after a lifetime of having virtually nobody, and they didn't care who knew it.

                                                                                                          ***

Beatrice was sitting at her desk, her feet up on the desk as she tapped her pen against her leg. Her office door opened and Casey slinked inside, shutting the door behind her as she did. Bea looked up at her and smiled weakly, acknowledging her presence as Casey pulled a chair around to the front of the desk and sat down on it the opposite direction.

"What are you, a hip pastoral youth counselor?" Bea asked, making Casey chuckle.

"Kids, lemme tell you about my boy, JC," she replied, making Bea laugh loudly before she continued with, "actually I just wanted to talk to you about, you know, the live show and all that stuff and...and just see how you were doing. Cause, like, it seems like a lot of work, but, ya know, it's probably worth it. I'm definitely on your side. I don't know why Steph is being such a stick in the mud."

"She has a budget to think about. I can't really dismiss her concerns," Beatrice said, "she has an entire streaming network at her disposal to watch over, we aren't the primary thing they produce. We're just one of the more popular ones."

"And shouldn't that popularity alone warrant getting what you want? Otherwise what's the point of fame if it can't get you something?" Casey asked. Bea smirked and sat upright in her chair, tossing her pen on the desk.

"I like the way you think," Bea said.

"Well," Casey said, "I just...I don't see the purpose of driving up subscriber numbers for someone elses service if they won't give you what you want in return. It has to be a mutually beneficial relationship. This feels parasocial, ya know? That shit isn't right."

Beatrice nodded, taking in what Casey was saying, knowing full well she was right. She was one of the leading programs on the network, she had every right to demand something now and then.

"You can't...you can't bring in millions of dollars and not be compensated," Casey said, "and...and having the ability to continue to make your work isn't the compensation. It's just one part of it. They have to give you more. They have to. You're worth that. This whole fucking thing is worth that. So, if you wanna put on a live show...I wanna help. When I was in high school I roadied for my friends band, and I know a lot about that kind of stuff and I know it isn't the same but...but I wanna help."

"...thank you, Casey," Beatrice said, "you're right. And I'd be so glad to have you on the team. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go have some words with Stephanie."

                                                                                                       ***

Liam had left for the day, citing a doctors appointment, which meant Keagan now had no companionship in the set  department if only because she didn't know anybody else on a personal level. But she simply continued doing the things that he had left her in charge to do, Serena laying on the stage beside her as she sculpted and painted and did whatever it was she could. While she was cutting something, she heard a woman approach the stage and look at Serena. Keagan's eyes turned towards her, instantly recognizing her as one of the women from the hall before.

"Is this your puppet?" she asked.

"Well, they asked me to help design a puppet to represent the African American community, ya know for any black kids who might be watching, so kind of?" Keagan replied, laughing weakly.

"You don't think it's...too black?" the woman asked, and this caught Keagan off guard. She set down her tools.

"Too black?" she asked.

"You know what I mean, like, it looks like it came from the inner city," the woman replied, "I'm just, I work for the marketing department and I can tell you right now that trying to sell this character isn't going to be easy. White audiences, and let's be honest our audience is predominantly white, don't mind black characters on the condition that they seem white. That they come from well to do families. This is why shows with well off, good natured black families do so much better than ones that feature the opposite."

Keagan couldn't believe what she was hearing. She turned her attention fully, now, to the woman.

"Let me ask you something," Keagan said, "do you also believe one can be too white? You know, wearing polo shirts and eating at kitschy chain restaurants where they hang ridiculous bullshit on the wall, and only listening to the most musically disinteresting band one can find? Because, surely, if that exists for one group it exists for every group."

"Well of course, no one's gonna argue that," the woman said, "but that doesn't matter, because white audiences don't mind that. They revel in that type of second hand self degrading caricature."

"The fuck they do," Keagan replied, "they can't handle being portrayed as anything other than perfection. We don't get that option. If we're not white enough, we're too black. There's no fuckin' middle of the road for us, because almost all of our characters are created and written by white folk. You don't see the level of unfairness between those two things?"

"I'm not here to argue race relations," the woman said sternly, "I'm simply telling you, from a marketing perspective, that trying to sell this puppet as a character, and any potential merchandise attached to it, will be very very difficult."

"I don't exist to make the market easier for you," Keagan said, finally sliding off the stage and standing firmly before the marketing executive, adding, "and neither does this fuckin' puppet, alright? We're people, not merchandise, and that can be said for any character of any race, but especially for those who are often deemed a potential threat to your investor more than others."

That's when Keagan glanced around, her eyes darting across the room, realizing everyone was watching them, almost as if they were expecting her to attack this woman like the stereotype would be expected of her. She unclenched her hands, trying to let the anger leave her, refusing to fall into their perspective trap of her people. The woman just smiled smugly, then turned to leave when suddenly she felt a fist connect with her jaw and she stumbled back against the stage, clenching her face. Standing behind her was Casey, of all people, nursing her hand, leaving Keagan in shock. The woman was helped up by a few people and left the area, leaving Keagan and Casey alone together, amidst the remaining crew.

"Wow," Keagan said.

"Sorry, that was real white saviory of me," Casey said.

"No, no, I prefer you did it," Keagan said, "if I did that I'd be sued and fired. All you're gonna get is a mild talk from HR."

Casey laughed, and Keagan laughed in response. Neither one felt like the fit in, but perhaps that's where the best friendships blossom. Keagan climbed back on stage to continue her work, and Casey offered to help. Maybe the outcasts could benefit from one anothers company. Besides, whether they were African American or a drug addict, they were each a looked down upon minority, and they weren't about to turn away potential defenders.

                                                                                                            ***

Beatrice found Stephanie in her office, unsurprisingly, doing, also unsurprisingly, paperwork. As she entered, she shut the door behind her, the sound of which caused Steph to look up from her desk and sigh. She shook her head as Bea sat down on the desk and watched her work.

"Rough day?" she asked.

"Every day is a rough day," Steph said, "what do you want now? I have to have all this budgeting done by this weekend and I-"

"I want you to acknowledge what I've given you," Bea said coldly, catching Steph off guard; she continued, "I want you to recognize the success what I created has brought to your network, and give me something in return. Let me put on this live show. It'll be good for the downtime in production, bring in so much extra money, good PR, all that crap you executives love."

Steph set her pen down and folded her arms on the desk.

"And if I say no?" she asked, "provided the answer is even up to me?"

"If you say no then I suppose I will just have to live with that decision, but I'll also be aware of how little I'm valued, and that might change how much effort I put into what I do from hereon out," Beatrice said, making Steph smile wide.

"You know what I like about you, Bea," Steph said, "you refuse to be beaten. Anytime something comes up, you rail against it until you win. Your show gets taken from you? You bring it back. You get publicly outed? You embrace it. Your friend almost dies from a medical condition? You donate an organ. That's...that's a level of commitment one has to admire. It also shows how absolutely deranged you are, but it's admirable nonetheless."

Beatrice laughed at this half insult, knowing Stephanie didn't fully well mean it to be cruel.

"...I have to talk to the budgeting team, the marketing team, all that stuff, but it should be manageable," Steph said, "you're right, you've given us alot and all you're doing is trying to give us, and the kids, more. That's, again, admirable. I don't wanna tell you what you can and cannot do, I don't wanna be what Liam used to be to you. My entire intention, from the very beginning, has been to help you, okay? We just...sometimes we need to find a middle ground. Compromise isn't giving up something you want, it's accepting that you can get part of what you want by not getting all of it. I'm just asking you to compromise with me, Bea."

Beatrice and Steph locked eyes momentarily, and Bea nodded.

"Fine," she said, "but you know what they say, a good compromise always leaves both parties mad."

"Wouldn't be showbusiness if we weren't both wildly disappointed," Steph replied, shaking Bea's hand, both women chuckling.

                                                                                                         ***

Delores was seeing Justine that night, so when Michelle and Eliza arrived back at the house, they knew they had the place to themselves, even if only for a bit. Both were extremely tired and so they opted, instead of doing anything else, to lay upstairs in Michelle's makeshift bedroom. Michelle was laying beside Eliza, spooning her, breathing in the scent of her hair, and thinking about the meeting. After a few minutes, she spoke softly.

"I feel jealous when Beatrice gives things to others," Michelle said.

"I know what you mean, our attachment feels so personal that it's hard not to," Eliza responded, not opening her eyes, "but she isn't just ours. She's everyones."

"I know, that's the thing I have to remind myself of," Michelle said, "Besides, what she's already given us is so much more than whatever she could ever give to someone else."

"It's true," Michelle said, as Eliza rolled over to face her; Michelle smiled and pushed Eliza's hair from her face, "she gave me you, after all."

Eliza blushed as Michelle kissed her, and together they lay there, in the dark and the quiet. It was something they all, even Beatrice, eventually had to acknowledge, which was that Bea and the character of Beatrice Beagle, were not the same. And while the world got the character, they got the woman who played her, and that was worth so much more.

"Do you actually believe in the afterlife? Does belief come from being associated with the church, or is it a personal thing? One might assume that you might be swayed by the surroundings and imagery of your workspace to believe in something if you normally wouldn't," Boris asked.

Boris and Father Krickett were sitting at their favorite local diner, in their usual booth, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Par for the course for their general daily luncheon.

"First of all," Father Krickett said, wiping his mouth on his napkin and then folding his hands on the table, "I don't really like calling what I do 'work'. It kind of devalues it. I like to think that I serve a higher purpose. I'm not in an office somewhere filing papers. There's a real calling to what I do, and I'm capable of actually helping people with it."

"You just insulted every secretary throughout history," Boris scoffed as he lifted his coffee to his lips.

"But, I think your assumption is correct, sure, one could be convinced if one were in the right headspace and the right place, but you have to remember, I decided willingly to go into this field. I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household. I mean we went to church on occasion, but only when it was deemed societally expected, like Christmas mass, stuff like that. Otherwise my folks were pretty distanced from the idea of any kind of religious thinking. They didn't shun it, but it wasn't the basis for their morals."

"You're not answering my question, you're doing that thing where you just ramble about semantics only remotely adjacent to it, without answering it. You really like to hear yourself talk, you should get a radio show," Boris said, making Father Krickett chuckle.

"Yes, Boris, I believe in an afterlife," Father Krickett finally said, "but I have to admit that that belief may come at the expense of having survived severe trauma. Belief in the afterlife is, and I hate to admit this but, more often than not a coping mechanism for peoples grief. They can't fathom the concept that those they loved so dearly are no longer of this plane of existence, and so it helps them to think that maybe they're somewhere else, safe, taken care of, still able to see us. Me personally, I think it's pretty fifty fifty in my case. Certainly some of it is a direct response to what happened to me, around me, but some of it - in fact most of it I'd even willing to say - is just a genuine belief in a higher power of sorts."

Boris finished drinking his coffee and nodded, listening. He sighed and picked up his sandwich.

"Do me a favor," Boris said, "if I die before you, which is very likely considering the age difference between us, please give my eulogy. You speak beautifully."

"Will do," Father Krickett replied, laughing, "what about you? You believe in anything?"

A moment passed as the waitress stopped by and refilled Boris's coffee mug. He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed for a bit, swallowed and then finally sighed.

"I think, when you reach my age, you start to believe in it whether you want to or not, because the idea of nonexistence is so goddamn terrifying that, really, the alternative is worse. So you cling to whatever hope you can get of there being something after death simply to spare yourself the pain of there likely not being anything after death. Sometimes that can lead to true belief, but most deathbed conversions are, in my opinion, the brain simply trying to grant itself some relief. Do I personally? Probably not. I think it's very unlikely. I'm not saying it's not possible, but I'd be surprised if it turns out to be true."

"If it does, please try and give me some kind of sign from the other side," Father Krickett said.

"God, even dead you won't stop giving me busywork," Boris remarked, the both of them chuckling.

This conversation had taken place shortly after Polly's death. Neither had any idea how relevent it would become.

                                                                                             ***

Boris pushed the door to the apartment open while Sister Jenn Whittle helped carry the woman from the car inside. They laid her out on the couch, as Boris came over to the couch and sat down on an ottoman, watching her closely with Sister Jenn while Whittle went to call the hospital. Boris glanced over at Jenn, who was holding a rosary between her hands, clearly praying, and he smirked.

"I haven't done that in years," he said.

"I don't do it for myself," Jenn admitted, "but I do it for those in need, or who I care about. I just...I don't understand what could drive a young woman to want to end her own life. I understand why some people might do it. The terminally ill, for example-"

This made Boris feel a bit more comfortable around Jenn, hearing her say this, considering his recent interest in the topic.

"-but," she continued, "at first glance, she doesn't seem sick. She doesn't seem terminally ill, anyway. Course invisible disabilities exist, but...it's just so sad. I need something to drink, do you want something?"

"No, I'm okay, thanks," Boris said, as Jenn got up and headed to the kitchen. He continued to think about what he'd been doing the moment before this woman had run into the wall beside his apartment. He himself had almost attempted to do the very same thing, albeit in a less violent manner, and then he thought about the car accident. After all these years, here was another car accident, and this time he'd managed to actually get this girl out before any long term damage could be done. He clasped his hands together, elbows posted on his knees, as he hung his head and just listened to the deafening silence surrounding him. Suddenly he felt something gripping his wrist, and he looked up, the woman on the couch looking at him with one eye half open.

"Don't...call anyone...please," she begged, and Boris felt his heart race.

"But...but you might need serious medical attention, you might-"

"They'll put me under supervision," she said, "I can't...I can't have that."

Just then Whittle entered the room, on hold on the phone with the hospital. Boris looked over at her, and she looked over at him, their eyes locked. Boris looked back at the woman, her one good eye pleading with him as much as an eye can plead. He sighed, stood up and walked to Whittle, took the phone from her and hung up. Both Whittle and Jenn stood there, completely surprised by his actions.

"...nobody calls anybody," Boris said, "you're a nurse, you watch over her, we'll take shifts."

"Jesus, Boris, she might-"

"This is what she wants," Boris said, looking back towards her and adding in a low whisper, "and after a lifetime of denying women what they want, I wanna give one what they want."

                                                                                               ***

Carol was sitting at her desk when the door opened and Burt came in, reading through the mail. As he reached the desk, plopping it down, Carol stood up and went to the nearby coffee machine in the office, pouring herself a cup. Burt sat down and sighed, scratching his head.

"Ya know, nobody tells you this, but running a business is just 90% paying bills," Burt said, "why is all of life just revolving around paying bills of one kind or another? I swear to god if I die and go to heaven and I have to pay bills, I'm going to punch God right in his stupid bearded face."

"What do you care, they're not even your bills," Carol said, chuckling as she sipped her coffee.

"I'm mad on your account," Burt said, "God forbid a man show righteous anger for the right reasons for once."

Carol laughed loudly, heading back to the desk, sitting down and setting her mug down before picking up the mail and going through it one by one. After a few moments of silence, the door to the office opened again, and this time Boris walked in. Carol smiled upon seeing him, as he high fived Burt. Boris walked right to the coffee machine and poured himself some before looking at Carol.

"To what do I owe this sudden arrival?" Carol asked.

"A woman tried to kill herself in front of me last night," Boris said, sipping from the mug.

"Yeah but that's par for the course for you, right?" Burt asked, smirking, making Boris chuckle.

"She drove her car directly into the wall near my apartment," Boris said, continuing, "now she's just resting in Chrissy's...in the guest room. I wanted to take her to a hospital, but she insisted on not going. Said they'd commit her for observation."

"Well, she did try and kill herself," Carol replied, "Seems only justified that that's the action they'd take."

"Well, I'm of the belief that one shouldn't be punished for doing what they feel is right for them," Boris said, "You're brought into this world without your consent, but you have no say in when you leave it? What's the point in having supposed 'freedom' if you can't even act for yourself in a manner befitting of you, so long as it isn't hurting others. And one could make the argument, I suppose, that your suicide would hurt those who love you, but death is inevitable, you're gonna die anyway, so all you're doing by not helping yourself is putting off their pain to a later date. Anyway, I didn't call the hospital."

Carol looked at Burt, nodding. Burt understood, stood up and exited the office, shutting the door behind him as he went. Carol sighed, stood up and smoothed out her dress, then walked around the desk, hands behind her back, thinking. After a moment, she stopped at a window and looked out at the garden for Larry and his wife.

"Boris," she said, "I know your perception on the futility of existence is a tad...warped, at the moment, considering your terminal status, but are you sure you're doing what's in her best interest? I know she asked you not to call anyone, but...maybe she needs that level of help."

"Are you doubting me?" Boris asked.

"Someone has to, eventually," Carol said, "Whittle, Krickett, Polly...everyone else has always just gone along with your beliefs, always giving in to how you think. Even on the occasions you have disagreements, they eventually find a mututal understanding in how you feel. But therein is the difference. Those are about things that affect YOU and YOU alone. I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about what could be best for this poor woman in your care."

"Listen, Whittle's a nurse," Boris said, "she's got more than enough experience to help take care of her for the time being. From what we can tell, she doesn't have any internal bleeding or anything serious. Just some minor scrapes, cuts, bruises, stuff of that nature. I'm just doing what she asked me to do. I thought you of all people would understand."

Boris slammed his coffee mug down on the desk, turning and heading for the door. As his hand wrapped around the knob, he turned and looked back at Carol.

"And for what it's worth," he continued, "you're wrong. Polly, Krickett, Whittle, they've all fought me on various things. Just because you want to act noble, don't disparage others who you think haven't done the same."

And with that, Boris exited the premises, leaving Carol to think about what he'd said.

                                                                                                ***

"I brought you something to drink and a sandwich," Jenn said, sitting down on the ottoman by the couch, putting a small TV tray beside it and placing a paper plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice alongside it. The woman nodded weakly, sitting up best she could and reaching for the food. As she picked it up and took a large bite, chewing, Jenn watched her with wide, happy eyes.

"You know," Jenn continued, "when I worked at the church, we would have homeless drives. People would come in off the streets, be given food, shelter, help getting them back on their feet. I'm not calling you homeless, for what it's worth, I'm just saying this reminds me of that. It's nice to help people. It's been so long since I've been able to help anyone."

"I appreciate it," the woman replied meekly, voice still hoarse, as she chewed; while she swallowed, she glanced around at the apartment, then asked, "do you live here?"

"No, my friend Boris and my girlfriend share this place," Jenn said, then realizing for the first time she'd called Whittle her girlfriend, and it felt good. It felt right. She blushed at this realization; Jenn cleared her throat, then asked, "why did you do it?"

"...I'm tired," the woman said, "So exhausted from fighting my own thoughts all the time. Everything is so hopeless. Nothing ever improves, no matter what I try and do, or how long I try and do it for. Everything just seems so...so stuck. I just didn't know what to do anymore. It feels like the right thing to do, to just take an early exit. I know that's frowned upon in your belief system, but-"

"Actually, for what it's worth," Jenn said, interrupting her, "I am part of a new church that's all about autonomy. The priest I work with, he's always seen the church as far too restrictive on aspects of ones life that have no bearing on the faith. So, he and I started a new church that's all about simply being there for others when they need guidance, and is accepting of anyone, regardless of their belief system."

The woman nodded solemnly, smiling weakly.

"So, as far as what we think of suicide...even if we don't personally agree with it, we would never tell someone else they can't do what they think might benefit them best," Jenn said, "besides, isn't the whole point of going to Heaven to be reunited with God again? Why wouldn't he be happy you got there sooner?"

The woman laughed a little, coughing as she did, making Jenn chuckle a little as well.

"I guess you have a point," the woman said.

"What's your name?" Jenn asked.

"Melody," she replied.

"Melody, I'm Jenn," Jenn said, "and you are among friends here. You are safe."

And Jenn wasn't just saying this to make Melody feel better. This was really what Krickett and Jenn believed in. There was no point in shaming anyone for the things they did that they felt was best for themselves. So long as they weren't actively harming others, what was the real damage? Far too often priests and those within the church felt like they knew what God would really want from people, but the truth was in fact nobody knew what God would want, and to claim they did was just as blasphemous as sinning outright was claimed to be. The best thing they could really do was guide others to the best of their ability.

Regardless of where that meant the people they helped wound up.

                                                                                              ***

Polly's stone was the cleanest in the cemetery, thanks to Boris coming by regularly and wiping it down. On his knees, doing just that at this very moment, he dropped the washclothe on the bucket lip and ran his hand down the smooth, grey and black fleckled marble, smiling at the sun glinting off the top of it.

"Fancy meeting you here," Father Krickett said from behind him. Boris turned and looked behind himself at John, then held his hand out so John could help him up, which he did. Once standing, Boris wiped his pants off.

"Yeah, well, might as well get used to being here," Boris said, "gonna be here for eternity, after all."

"Solid reasoning," John remarked.

"How did you even know I was here?" Boris asked.

"Because you always come here at this time every three days," John said, "walk with me."

Boris nodded, picked up the bucket, and together the two men started walking through the cemetery in silence. It was late afternoon, and the trees overhead were rustling gently in the wind as they walked beneath them. John smiled as they passed by some very old marble statuette graves, reaching out and touching one in particular as they did.

"I've always found cemeteries to be peaceful," John said, "I know to most people they're just an uncomfortable reminder of what's to come. Most people don't like being reminded of their mortality, instead opting to ignore the inevitable, but I find some sort of comfort in it. The idea that life is finite, that there's an end to it all, like a good book has an epilogue. Everything comes to an end."

"No matter how painful life is, eventually the pain stops?" Boris asked.

"Okay, well now you're making it depressing," John replied, both men chuckling; John then asked, "Are you doing okay?"

John, nor anyone else, knew about his near suicide attempt the night previous. John didn't even know about the girl in the car. Boris contemplated telling him about it all, but opted instead to play his cards close to his chest and avoid anything serious for the time being. There'd be plenty of time for serious things soon enough. So instead, Boris simply shrugged, and cleared his throat, pounding his fist gently on his chest.

"About as okay as can be, I suppose," Boris said, "So, tell me then, John, do you think you'll go to Heaven? You think you're comfortable with the concept of your own non existence? I only ask since you've had so much experience around the subject, between your brother, your boyfriend, what have you."

Father Krickett looked up at the trees and thought. They walked in silence for a few moments, before they stopped near a large tombstone, and John reached out, planting his hand on the top, just gently rubbing it.

"I'd be a hypocrite to say I don't believe in Heaven when I preach about it," John said, "but the fact of the matter is, yes, I do, and yes I don't. It's outright ignorant to look around at the world and not believe there's not some kind of greater force at work here. Everything at a base levels works too well together. But does that mean I believe in the kind of Heaven and God the religions teach? Not necessarily. A power, of some sort, certainly, but not in the ways one might expect. I do look forward to the moment, but I'm also not hoping it comes any sooner than it should."

Boris nodded, listening.

"Polly wasn't scared," Boris whispered, "I hope I can show that same level of conviction in my final moments. That sort of fearlessness."

"Just because someone doesn't show it doesn't mean they weren't scared," John said, "and there's nothing wrong with fear. Fear is natural. Ignoring it isn't. Come on, I'll buy dinner."

With that, Boris and Father Krickett continued towards the parking lot. The entire time, until they were sitting down to eat, Boris couldn't get his mind off the woman from the car, and what her reasonings could possibly be for wanting to do the very same thing that Boris himself had wanted to do. He knew, in due time, he'd come to those answers. In due time, he and this woman would have ample understanding of one another, and in due time, perhaps, even mutual respect.

The problem was...Boris no longer had due time.

"It's weird," Kelly said, sitting up in her hospital bed, "my whole life I'd never been able to survive any kind of physical activity of any kind. That's why I never want out for any sports. Remember when I broke my tailbone just from falling off the monkey bars in 5th grade?"

Rachel nodded, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"And yet, here I am, having survived a plane crash," Kelly continued, "who'd have thought, of all the people we know, that I'd be the one who'd manage to achieve that."

"It's not a skill," Rachel remarked.

"I know that," Kelly said, "but it's still pretty damn impressive. The odds of it being me, out of all those people, is wild. None of The Evergreens, not even the guy sitting next to me-"

Rachel looked up from her yogurt, spoon sticking from between her lips. Kelly noticed her and elaborated.

"Some older guy in a sweatervest," she said, "might've been a teacher, I don't know."

Of course. Wattson. Rachel continued eating. The last thing she wanted to discuss, in all honesty, was the crash, but it seemed oddly therapeutic for Kelly, so she let her prattle on and on long as she wanted, because it kept her interested and awake. Really, though, Rachel was just happy to finally be able to see her, especially after a few scary days of thinking she'd never see her best friend again.

"Hey, at least now you'll have a cool story to tell on dates," Rachel said.

"Right, like I get asked out," Kelly said.

The door to her room opened and Wyatt entered, carrying a box of donuts and setting it down on Kelly's lap. She lit up immediately and threw the box lid open, grabbing a sprinkle covered donut as Wyatt sat down beside Rachel, handing her a coffee, which she politely thanked him for.

"Plus now I get spoiled," Kelly said, mouth full of donut, "if that isn't worth the terror of a free fall from the sky, I don't know what is."

Rachel smiled weakly. So many things she wanted to say. Apologize for. Like how she'd inadvertently been involved in the crash to begin with, but if she ever told Kelly that, she knew it would be the end of everything. So instead she just smiled, nodded, went along with the conversation, ignoring all the goodwill in her heart to do the right thing. After all, she'd not been doing the right thing for so long now, what was one more lie added to the pile, in reality? And Wyatt? Wyatt did the same. He didn't want to lose Kelly's friendship, after he thought he'd nearly lost her wholesale as it was. Besides, much as he cared about her, he wasn't actually here to talk to Kelly. He was here to talk to Rachel, and all because of an interaction he'd had earlier in the day.

                                                                                                            ***

That morning, when Wyatt woke up, he went downstairs, found breakfast already made and Scarlett and the kids eating, and he smiled to himself. A return to at least semi normalcy was more than welcome at this point. He got himself some coffee from the pot before seating himself at the table, all of them eating in silence. Mona was reading a book, her little brother was babbling happily, and Scarlett was scrolling through her social media feed on her phone.

"What motivated you to make an entire breakfast spread?" Wyatt asked as he pulled some pancakes onto his plate and began pouring syrup over them.

"Well, I started to feel like less of a mom after watching nothing but 80s sitcoms all day," Scarlett replied flatly, the both of them laughing at this response. After breakfast, Wyatt went upstairs, took a shower, got dressed, said goodbye to his family and headed to work. However, the last thing he expected to find once he entered his office was Celia, of all people, who had apparently been waiting for him since work started. He jumped a little at the sight of her, then straightened out his tie and put his briefcase down by the desk as he sat in his office chair.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, checking his watch, "Isn't this a little early for a meeting?"

"We need to talk about Calvin," Celia said coldly, and Wyatt nodded.

"Yeah...yeah I know."

"He's unhinged," Celia said, "he's...I mean he's an out and out danger to anyone and everyone around us, and he's the thread that will unspool it all if we don't do something to get him under control of some sort."

"You sound like a mob boss," Wyatt said, grinning, making her smirk.

"Listen," Celia said, standing up and pacing, "...blowing up one guy? It's bad, but it's manageable. But blowing up an entire plane, killing literally over a hundred people? That...that's not so manageable. What if he gets the itch to do something worse. What if some other prominent figure attached to the whole thing emerges, and he has to...I don't know, derail a train?"

"A train?" Wyatt asked, laughing, "Who is he, Dick Dastardly?"

"Wyatt, I'm being serious, you know what I'm talking about. If he's capable of terrorism on that level, then he's capable of anything, and we need a contingency plan of some sort in place to deal with it when that time comes."

"You mean if."

"No, I think we both know I mean when," Celia said, looking sternly at Wyatt's face.

This was when it dawned on Wyatt just how right Celia was. It wasn't a matter of if. It was a matter of when. He sighed, stood up and walked over to Celia, putting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her back to her seat. Celia reluctantly took her seat again, as Wyatt sat on his desk in front of her, holding her hands, rubbing the back of them with his thumbs in a comforting manner.

"Listen," Wyatt said, "leave Calvin to me, okay? I know you're right. I know that moment is going to come. But you don't have to worry about it. You have your job and your son, and you don't need to be struggling with Calvin's bullshit as well. Leave him to me and maybe Rachel. We'll figure something out, I promise. And unlike my father, I don't make promises for the sake of looking good. I'll actually follow through on them. So when I promise you something, rest assured you can take it at face value."

Celia smiled, nodding. She did believe Wyatt. Up to this point, he'd done his best to keep her and Rachel as shielded as possible for Calvin's batshit attitude and actions, and up to this point he hadn't let them down, so why should she think he would? Wyatt let go of her hands and walked back around behind his desk, sitting back down as Celia turned around in her chair, facing him.

"Why'd you say that about your father?" she asked, "you never talk about him."

"Because he's an awful bag of shit," Wyatt said, "and because I've done my damndest to not be anything like him. Rest assured, the only thing we have in common at this juncture is our last name, and even that I'm not too crazy about. I actually thought about taking Scarlett's last name when we married just to have absolutely nothing in common with my father, but Wyatt Demure made me sound like some kind of old timey cowboy, and...I mean, that's not uncool but it's not exactly business like."

Celia laughed, listening. She was grateful to have Wyatt to calm her nerves, nerves which were beginning to get frayed at each end. So she sat there and she listened to him joke and she tried to let herself forget about the potential danger they were constantly in. A few hours into it, Wyatt suggested they go to lunch, and frankly, Celia couldn't think of a better way to spend an afternoon.

                                                                                                           ***

When Rachel entered Kelly's room for the first time, she almost burst into tears. Kelly wasn't asleep, she was just resting, but seeing her best friend in a hospital bed, after having survived something almost nobody survives...it really made her feel emotional. She approached the bed lightly and sat down in the chair beside it, almost as if it'd been placed there expecting her. Kelly slowly opened her eyes and looked towards Rachel, who just smiled at her.

"Hey," Kelly whispered, "you finally showed up."

"I did, yeah," Rachel replied, "I brought Yogurt. Do you want Yogurt?"

"It's one of the few things they let me have in here, so not really," Kelly said, chuckling, "kind of sick of it by now, but thanks for thinking of me. I appreciate that."

"How are you feeling?" Rachel asked, and Kelly pursed her lips, thinking.

How was she feeling? She'd been on her way to a convention for work and somehow wound up surviving a plane crash in the process. She should be feeling invincible, but instead she found that she felt more...fragile than anything. Like life could be taken from her at any moment, because, when she faced reality, she realized that her survival was a fluke. She could've just as easily died like the others. So she didn't feel invincible. She just felt lucky. Grateful. To still be here, still have her friends, her life.

"I feel..." Kelly started, "...alive."

"Well that's an answer," Rachel remarked, chuckling as she pulled the lid off her Yogurt, dumped in the little granola bits on top and dug in with the tiny plastic spoon provided, adding, "when do you think you'll be able to get out of here? I mean, how bad of shape are you in?"

"My left leg is completely shattered, bone wise," Kelly said, "I'll be in a cast for months. On crutches for a while, and that's if I even should be allowed out of bed. Other than that, I'm surprisingly okay. I'll probably be staying with my folks, though, since being on my own in my apartment is likely a bad idea."

And just as she said this, the door to the room opened again and in walked her parents, Allen and Carol. They stopped at the sight of Rachel, surprised, having not seen her in years. Rachel stood up and set her yogurt down on the table, and was suddenly hugged tightly by them both, which surprised her. She hadn't expected such a warm welcome, especially after how things had gone down between Kelly and her in high school, but here she was, always the ever present familiar face, ready to help.

"We didn't know she was having a visitor," Allen said, as he pulled away and sat down on the bedside by Kelly, stroking her face, "if we'd known we'd have come prepared with more snacks and stuff."

"Oh, it's okay, I brought my own snacks," Rachel replied, snickering.

Rachel's eyes then turned to Kelly's mother, Carol, who was still hugging her, looking at her. Rachel felt a sense of unease, and politely squirmed away, excusing herself. Once out in the hall, she leaned against the now shut door and breathed, her chest rising and falling fast. She didn't know why Carol had been eyeballing her the way that she had, and it made her incredibly uncomfortable. She needed comfort food. She needed a candy bar. She felt around in her back pants pocket to discover her wallet, and headed to the candy machine down the hall.

If there's one thing that can calm a girls nerves, she thought, it's chocolate.

                                                                                                        ***

"When I was a boy," Wyatt said, cutting his sandwich in half at the table on the outdoor patio of the bistro they'd gone to lunch for, "and not the strapping young lad you see before you now, my father and I had an okay enough relationship. I mean, it wasn't great, we weren't playing catch every day and bonding like you see in commercials, but hey, that's why they're commercials, right? An idealized lie about reality, meant to make you feel insecure about your own so you buy their product."

"Wow, you really understand marketing," Celia said, sipping on her iced tea.

"Well, I work in business, so," Wyatt said, taking a bite from his sandwich; he chewed, swallowed, then continued, "anyway, so we got along pretty alright. But once I got to be a teenager, I started spending a lot of time with my mom, and between that and my first girlfriend, I kind of...stopped being an asshole. I mean, I was never an asshole asshole, but I had that guy mentality that all guys start out with, right? Thinking you're the center of the universe, the best, biggest and brightest. I was never mean to women, but I also never considered them much. But my first girlfriend, Amelia, she especially opened my eyes to how hard things were for women, and after that, I started seeing my father in a whole new light, and he frankly wasn't happy about that or her."

"Sounds like a wonderfully delightful man," Celia said, sticking her fork into her her chicken salad.

"And then he started verbally abusing my mom," Wyatt said, "never got physical, but shit, some of the stuff he said was just downright cruel. I promised myself I'd never be like that. I wound up being sort of like that though. Not intentionally, however. When I broke things off with Amelia, I wasn't...I wasn't exactly nice about it. Besides, we were kind of dating in secret. I was already pretty popular, and she was that weird girl that everyone made fun of and I just didn't want anyone to know I was seeing her for fear of my reputation. In hindsight, that's ridiculously petty and shallow of me and I regret it every single day."

"Well at least you've shown growth, recognition is the first step to betterment," Celia said, "what happened to her? How did she take it?"

"Not well," Wyatt said, picking up his beer glass and taking a long drink, then adding, "she kind of...had a breakdown. My father was pleased when I started dating Scarlett though, because even in spite of her feminist mindset, she was, apparently, more socially acceptable as a woman than Amelia was. He's such a creep. I never wanna look at women the way he did or continues to do."

"You know," Celia said, spearing a tiny tomato and pulling it up to her face, "if you'd told me that the most popular boy in our high school, the jock of all jocks, would wind up being a feminist, I don't think I'd have believed you, and yet here we are. Stranger things have happened I suppose."

Wyatt laughed and nodded. Indeed, it was funny, even to him.

"So where's Amelia these days? Is she okay?" Celia asked, and Wyatt shrugged.

"You'd have to ask Calvin," Wyatt said, his voice lowering, "...she was his sister."

                                                                                                         ***

Rachel pumped in the corresponding numbers and letters to the keypad and awaited her delicious treat to be given to her from the vending machine. Standing there, tapping her nails on the metal of the machine, she didn't even hear Kelly's mom, Carol, coming up from behind her. When she felt a hand on her arm, Rachel screamed a little, jumped back and then put a hand to her chest to catch her breath, half laughing. Carol was laughing as well.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," Carol said.

"That's...that's okay," Rachel replied, "It's just been a tense few days, I haven't had time to do Yoga or meditate or anything."

"You do Yoga and meditate?" Carol asked.

"No, but I still don't have the time to," Rachel replied, making Carol laugh again. She heard the clunk of her candy bar drop into the bucket, and reached down to retrieve it. Once she pulled back the wrapper, she offered some to Carol, who politely declined. Together, with Rachel munching away on it, they walked back down the hall.

"I wanted to speak with you," Carol said, "about what happened in school, between you and Kelly. We never really got a chance to talk after that, and...you were always at our house, almost like a second daughter. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Kelly was destroyed by the falling out, so I just...I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Well, considering it's been over a decade at this point, I'd say I'm pretty alright, yeah," Rachel said, "I'm managing well enough."

"Rachel," Carol said, stopping in the hall, forcing Rachel to do the same and face her; she continued, "...I want you to know that we aren't mad at you. Friends have fights. Sometimes they don't come back from it. But you two did, and it didn't even take a tragedy for it to happen. You became friends again before the crash. That makes it truly genuine. You're not acting out of fear or regret. Regardless, Allen and I aren't mad with you. Especially after hearing from your mother what that man tried to do to you, even if she didn't believe it herself, we do."

Rachel felt her heart flutter. Her eyes watered.

"Kelly's told us a lot about you since you guys started hanging out again," Carol said, approaching Rachel and taking her hands in her own, "and we want you to know that...we accept you. Hell, we always kind of had our suspicions anyway. But we accept you nonetheless. You'll always be like a second daughter to us. We know your mother is...well, to put it bluntly, out of her damn mind, and that not having parents of any kind can make the world feel incredibly small and lonely, so we want you to know that we're here for you. You're here for Kelly, so we're here for you. We don't care if you're gay. We'll always love you."

Rachel finally snapped. Everything she'd been holding back since the crash, all the tension and fear and anxiety, it finally burst through her chest like a dam of emotions, and she flooded Carol with her feelings. She threw her arms around Carol and hugged her tightly, with Carol rubbing her back, comforting her. Carol was right. The world WAS infinitely smaller and lonelier without parents, and so Rachel was happy to have some. Even if they weren't her own.

Especially if they weren't her own.

                                                                                                          ***

That evening, when visiting hours were almost over, Wyatt was standing outside of Kelly's room, waiting for Rachel to leave. As soon as she exited the room, shutting the door behind her, they began to walk side by side, but not speaking. Wyatt's hands were shoved in his windbreakers pockets, and from what Rachel could tell, he too had had a rather emotional afternoon.

"Um..." Rachel started, "do you wanna get dinner?"

"Nah, Scarlett's in a maternal mood, so I should go home to eat, what about you?" he asked.

"Sun's super busy caring for her father, so I have a lot of time to myself right now," Rachel replied, scratching the back of her head, "...are you okay, dude? You look kind of like hell."

"I could say the same for you," Wyatt remarked, smirking, "but yeah I'm alright. Just had a weird afternoon, remembering lots of stuff from the past, you know how it goes. Went to lunch with Celia. Talked about Calvin. That's actually what I'm here to discuss with you, is Calvin. You're closest to him. You need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't crack further. Because Rachel...if he does...if he can't either manage himself or be managed...something will have to be done about him. We can't risk losing everything because he can't hold it together."

Rachel nodded, stopping in the hall, Wyatt doing the same, facing one another.

"...and what do we do if we can't?" Rachel asked quietly.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, but for now..." Wyatt said, "why don't you come have dinner with my family?"

Rachel smiled. She liked that idea. She might not have her own family, but she sure was accepted by everyone else's.

Michelle wasn't a writer, nor was Eliza. In fact, the only person in this room who was a writer, in all technicality, was Beatrice. Yet, she'd pulled Michelle and Eliza into the writers room with her, then locked the door. She'd ordered pizza, gotten drinks, and told them they wouldn't be leaving until they helped her write this episode. Sitting at the large table while Beatrice paced, eating a slice of pizza, Michelle couldn't help but glance over at Eliza, who looked as uncomfortable as she ever had seen her look.

"I wanna present this in as straight forward a manner as possible," Bea finally said, finishing her slice, crust and all, and wiping her hands on a napkin sitting on the table; she continued, "That's the whole idea of childrens entertainment, simplistic but not insulting. Talking to them at their level, not under their level, insinuating they can't understand complex concepts simply because they're younger. Children are far more intuitive than we give them credit for being."

"That's all very true," Michelle said, "but I don't...I don't know what to really say that hasn't already been said by a million other childrens shows."

"That's the challenge, though," Bea said, "is to come up with saying something that's been said but in a new way. A way that hasn't been approached yet. Because, let's face it, everyone has told kids that their loved ones are somewhere in the sky, watching over them. That they still exist in some way or another. But you don't wanna be the show that outright tells them that's bullshit. You don't want to diminish a childs hope. But to sugarcoat it with such fairytale bullshit...that's almost as bad."

Eliza groaned, chewing on her nails. This was something she did when she was particularly anxious, a habit Michelle had become all but far too familiar with.

"To be perfectly honest," Michelle said, "I don't know what it is I'm doing in here other than providing emotional support. I just hate my mom, she's not dead. Dead to me, maybe, but not actually dead."

"That's what gives us perspective," Bea said, pacing around the table, "we can't just be coming from the place of having dead mothers. We need variation."

"Oh, well, let me just go call her and ask when she plans on dropping dead," Michelle said, rather angrily. Bea stopped walking and looked at Michelle, but not angrily, more like with sorrow on her face. Michelle felt bad. She whispered 'sorry' before looking down at her feet. Beatrice just exhaled and shook her head before looking at Eliza.

"What did you think, when your mom died?" Bea asked.

"That it was my fault," Eliza said, "but that guilt isn't really something that I, ya know, wanna pass onto others. That's not healthy."

"I meant more like...do you believe in Heaven or anything?" Bea asked, picking up another slice.

"I guess I..." Eliza started, trailing off, thinking, before continuing, "I guess I don't really believe in Heaven, exactly, but...like...energy. You know how even after someone leaves a room, goes back home or whatever, you can still kinda sense them? Their presence was so strong that it left a mark? That's kinda what I believe in. The energy of the person is still here."

"That's really beautiful," Bea said, "but I'm not sure it's comforting, exactly. Also kids don't really get metaphysical stuff like that."

"You just said not to talk down to them," Michelle interrupted.

"I know, I know, but I do have to be aware of their level of perception," Bea remarked, "Something like what Eliza said is beautiful, don't get me wrong - and let's face it, likely the most scientifically accurate as well - but it's just not something that children the age of our viewership would really be able to grasp. We need something a bit easier for them to understand."

Michelle groaned, threw her head back and stood up. She excused herself, saying she was going to the bathroom, when in reality, as soon as she got outside the room, she headed straight for the smoking porch out back. Not because she smoked, she didn't, but because she knew it was the last place anyone would think to look for her. Once outside, she sighed and shut her eyes, leaning against the wall.

"Rough day?" Casey asked, surprising her.

"God, don't do that," Michelle replied, hand to her chest, catching her breath. Casey laughed and stubbed out the end of her cigarette.

"You alright?" Casey asked, sitting down on a table nearby.

"I...don't know," Michelle said, "...you hate your mom, right?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Do you wish she were dead?"

"....yeah, I do," Casey said, "I know that's harsh, but when someone who's supposed to love and protect you does the exact opposite - puts you in harms way, especially for monetary gain - then they're no longer viable for remorse. So yeah I wish she were dead. It would make my life, and possible recovery, all the easier. Why?"

Michelle walked to the table and seated herself as well, looking at her nails.

"Let's pretend we both had good relationships with our moms," Michelle said, "what would feel if she died? What do you believe in? What happens, where she goes, whatever. All that nonsense."

Casey had never really considered a situation wherein she and her mother liked one another, nor had she really considered her personal religious beliefs, particularly because she didn't really have any. Her family had never gone to church, and she'd never felt one ounce of pull towards a religion of any kind. In all honesty, she'd just kinda ignored the concept altogether. But now, being asked to confront both, in one theoretical happening, it made her wonder what she would feel or think.

"I guess," Casey said, "if my mom and I had a good relationship, and she died, I would probably just...accept the fact that she loved me while she was here, and the fact that she isn't here now can never take that away. Love is an idea, right? It's a concept. A person might go away, but their ideas never do. They're spread to others. Things like racism and homophobia are taught. Things like love are taught. If she loved me while she was here, that's what I would focus on. She would, in essence, become that love, whether she was here physically or not anymore."

Michelle nodded slowly, feeling her eyes tear up. That was...surprisingly beautiful, and certainly not the kind of thing she'd expected from someone like Casey, who didn't exactly strike her as the deep, emotional kind.

"I like that," Michelle said, nodding slowly, "I do. That's...very simple, very easy to understand, very pretty. I like that a lot."

Michelle stood up and began to head back inside, before turning and looking back at Casey. She wanted to invite her in, get her input heard, but she knew that wasn't really her decision. This was Beatrice's moment. Working through her grief, her loss, and she wanted only Michelle and Eliza there with her. She sighed, continued back inside and headed back to the office. When she re-entered the room, she found Beatrice laying on her back on the table by the pizza box, with Eliza sitting in her chair, her knees pulled to her chest.

"Did I miss something?" Michelle asked.

"What's the point," Bea said, "why even try to make sense of it, when it doesn't make sense to begin with. The big questions about things like death...eventually you run out of answers. A child keeps asking 'why' and you stop having things to respond with, because we don't know why. We don't know anything or everything. So why even bother trying to make sense of it, explain it, when it's so clearly unexplainable?"

"The pain isn't though, and that's what should be focused on," Michelle said, standing behind Eliza, massaging her shoulders, relaxing her, feeling her anxiety melt away with each touch, "that's what children need help with. They understand loss. That makes sense. What was here isn't here now. Very simple. What isn't simple is trying to figure out how to feel about it. Some kids might feel too much and be punished for it, others might not feel a thing and be punished for it. But there's no wrong way to grieve, and no right way either. They need to be told that however they feel is normal, because it's what they're feeling."

Beatrice sat up and looked at Michelle, furrowing her brow.

"...holy shit you're right," Bea said, "...you're absolutely right. The concept of loss isn't new to them. That's inherent. That's what object permanance is all about. It's something they learn from the moment they're born. They act badly and a favorite toy gets taken away. They understand loss. They don't understand that there are multiple appropriate ways to respond to it."

Bea climbed down from the table and let her hair down, looking at Eliza.

"You felt guilty, right? Even though you knew it wasn't your fault," Bea said, "and even if it isn't your fault, you have every right to feel guilty because it's how you felt. You can't change the things you feel. The ways you react to things. How do you feel now, though, Eliza? With a little bit of time and distance between the incident and this moment?"

Eliza looked away from Bea and up at Michelle, who just smiled and patted her on the head.

"I...I guess," Eliza said, "I guess now I just feel glad she was my mom to begin with. Even if we were different, even if we had arguments and disagreements and...and even if we didn't get along all the time, I know she wanted me to be my best, and to be okay, and to be happy. I'm glad she was here, and that she was mine."

Beatrice grinned and looked at Michelle.

"Love," Michelle said, echoing Casey's sentiment, "is the one thing loss can't take away from us. The person might be gone, but the way they felt about us never is, and that's what we can hold fast to in the toughest moments. That's the lesson to be taught here. That's the sentiment you need to push."

Beatrice nodded, then hugged Eliza, and then hugged Michelle. She then exited the room, without saying a word. Michelle sat back down in the chair across from Eliza, and scooted towards her. She reached out, and Eliza gave her her hands. Michelle took them gingerly, and kissed them, making Eliza blush.

"Are you okay?" Michelle asked, "This was...kind of intense, I'm not gonna lie."

"...it's okay to feel nothing?" Eliza asked, and Michelle nodded.

"Of course it is! Why?"

"Because that's how I feel a lot of the time," Eliza said, "I mean, not just about my mom, but about everything. The only time I ever feel anything else is when I'm with you. You make me feel happy. Or, whatever happiness feels like, I guess. When I was growing up, I had this special teacher who taught me emotions on a chart, like, what peoples faces look like when they feel certain ways. I still look to it from time to time to make sense of the people around me. But with you...I always know how you're feeling, and that makes me feel good. To understand another person enough to not need the chart, makes me feel special."

"You are special, sweetheart," Michelle whispered, kissing Eliza's hands again, making her blush.

"I guess...and I hope you don't take this weird," Eliza said, "in some kind of way, this relationship is almost maternal. Does that make sense? I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable."

"I'm happy to be useful in whatever capacity you need in that moment," Michelle replied, "if that's sometimes romantic and sometimes maternal, that's perfectly fine. I love you. I just wanna keep you happy and comfortable."

Eliza slid off her own chair and climbed into Michelle's, cozying up on her lap best she could given the space provided, making Michelle laugh. Neither one had ever had a relationship before this, and yet they both knew they didn't want a relationship after. All they wanted was each other.

Beatrice would go to her office for the day, and she would write the script. She would take everything that Michelle and Eliza, and unknowingly Casey, had offered and she would turn it into a heartfelt confession about emotions and love that any child could easily comprehend and learn from. And when she was done with it, she would drop it off with Liam for him to check over, and then she would go home. When she arrived, she would find Leslie already making dinner. Beatrice would say hello to her, give her a hug and then adjourn to her home office. Once inside, she would lock the door, and she would sit in the center of the room on the floor.

The entire day, ever since her mother had passed only 48 hours prior actually, all she'd managed to think about was how to present this through her work. That was how she processed things. She did it through the puppetry that was Beatrice Beagle. But now...now she was home again. Now she didn't have to work. Now Beatrice, the facade, could melt away and she could be Amelia once more. And it was in that moment that she finally let herself fall apart. She fell onto her side on the floor, hugged herself and sobbed. Even though she wrote this script, she didn't believe any of it. How could she? She'd never been one to cope with loss well. First her dog, then Claire, then her mother. She didn't know how to manage. The fact that she somehow hadn't lost Michelle during her recent health scare was a shocker, and she wa grateful for not having to work through that as well.

A few hours later, when she would join Leslie in the living room as she watched game shows at half attention, Bea would nuzzle up against her on the couch without saying a word. Leslie would wrap her arms around her and pull her close, stroking her hair.

"How was your day?" Leslie asked as she raised her drink to her lips with her free hand and sipped.

"Fine," Bea would reply, before burying her face against Leslie's sweater and speak, muffled, "my mom is dead."

"I know," Leslie replied quietly, still petting her head, "I know. That's the one bad thing about moms. They die."

Beatrice never allowed herself to grieve her dog. She'd never allowed herself to grieve Claire. Instead she'd always soldiered onwards. But this time, after she'd done her usual coping process of getting her thoughts out via her work, she finally allowed herself to grieve for her mother, because she knew it wasn't healthy to not do so. Seemed like just a week ago she was a little girl, going to the library with her mom, learning and playing and discovering. And now her mom was dead. And no amount of childrens show saccharine could take away the ugliness of the reality of the world. The world didn't care that these people were our mothers. They died anyway. And one day Bea would die too. Perhaps that's what she was really mourning. Her own mortality. With her mother gone, it pushed her closer to the top of the list, and that scared her. She still had so much to do.

But she'd do it tomorrow.

Tonight...

...tonight she grieved her mother.

The field was an absolute mess of a sight.

Men and women in various uniforms - firefighters, cops, medical workers - surveying the damage. Gathering bodies and putting them into body bags, then putting them into one of the numerous ambulances that were stationed there, ready to help any survivors they found, but...as of yet...they hadn't found a single one. A cough. Sheer back breaking pain. Eyes full of dust and smoke. What was even happening? What was the last thing they remembered? The plane. The plane going down, screaming, alarms. Suddenly they felt someone kneel beside them and as they rolled their half closed eyes to look up at the woman in the firefighter suit beside them, she looked ecstatic. She reached out and took their hand.

"Can you hear me?" she asked, and they nodded; she grinned even more, "okay, listen to me, you need to stay still, you've likely broken something, or everything, I don't know, I'm not a doctor. Either way, I'm going to get some help for you, we're gonna get you to a hospital, okay?"

They nodded again. The woman smiled sweetly, patted their hand and turned around, yelling over her shoulder.

"I need some help over here! I've got a survivor!" she shouted, "I need medical staff now!" she then turned back to them and asked, "Sweetheart, what's your name? Can you remember your name?"

"My name is Kelly," she whispered, "I'm Kelly."

"Is there someone we should call for you Kelly?" the firefighter asked, and Kelly nodded, coughing.

"Wyatt Bloom," she managed to say.

                                                                                                         ***

Wyatt was sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his upstairs bathroom when he heard the door creak open, and looked up to see Rachel slowly slink into the room. He sighed and slid back into the tub actual, his legs hanging over the lip. Rachel carefully climbed in and positioned herself in the same manner, but neither one spoke. Wyatt chewed on his lip as he listened to Rachel pop the can of soda she'd brought in with her and start to drink it.

"She sounded so scared," he whispered, "she sounded...terrified."

"Well, I don't blame her," Rachel said, "I mean, she was on a plane going down. God knows nobody except perhaps the terminally suicidal are excited at that prospect."

"Fuck...this isn't Calvin's fault. It's mine. That's the worst part. I tried so hard to blame him, but-"

"Don't even," Rachel said, putting her drink down and grabbing Wyatt's hands, "don't you ever give him that freedom from the consequences of his actions, dude. He did this all on his own. He decided the Evergreens were a problem, he decided his teacher needed to go, and that's all there is to it."

"They're gonna trace it all back to him," Wyatt said, "you kill one man, okay fine, you might get away with that, but you down an entire airplane? There's no excuse for that. And I guarantee you he didn't know how to build a different kind of bomb. I guarantee that he made the exact same kind, and once that gets out, they'll trace it right back to the bomb that killed Grudin."

"Then let him take the fall," Rachel whispered, and this surprised Wyatt, who, up to this point, had been under the impression that Rachel was far more protective of people than he was; she shook her head and wiped her eyes, "she was my best friend, even after we fell out I still cared about her, and...and reconnecting with her was wonderful. And he took that away from me. So fuck Calvin. Let him go down in flames. If they need a scapegoat, let them scape him."

Wyatt nodded slowly as Rachel handed him her soda and he smiled, taking a long drink before Celia entered as well.

"Uh..." she said, "there's a hospital on the phone for you, Wyatt."

Wyatt and Rachel exchanged a look, and he furrowed his brow in confusion.

"...it's Kelly," Celia said, "...she's alive."

                                                                                                       ***

When Angie Dickenson had been a little girl, she went to church every single Sunday, but this wasn't the typical church. Her parents were part of a group that didn't exactly worship the usual god, but instead a man who promised them eternal salvation. A man who went by the name Art Johnson. So every Sunday, they would get dressed up and they would drive down to the church he owned, and they would listen to him preach. And despite the fact that they were no longer associated with what was essentially a cult, Angie couldn't help but feel the need, the desire, to worship someone. She thought she found that someone in Oliver Brighton, but now...now she found that she far preferred to worship Wyatt Bloom.

She was sitting on her bed, cross legged and scrolling on her laptop while wearing track shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She hadn't showered since the news of the crash broke. It'd been a whole day, and she was still completely obsessed with looking up information of Wyatt - not hard to obtain when one was an active member of their local community, business owner and former star of the high school baseball team - and printing it all out, creating a bible of sorts. The door to her bedroom opened, and her mother popped in. Angie looked up from her screen, black licorice hanging from her lips.

"We're going to have dinner soon," her mother said, "Are you hungry?"

Angie nodded, not speaking.

"Did you take your medication?" her mother asked, and Angie nodded; her mother smiled, "okay, good, dinner will be ready in about ten. Wash up before you come down."

But Angie hadn't taken it. She hadn't taken it since leaving the Evergreens, tired of being under the control of chemicals and instead opting to be under the control of another outside source. A man she deemed to be worthy of worship. A man who had somehow foreseen the plane crash and warned her not to join them on it. Wyatt didn't know it of course, but his one act of decency would only become an enormous problem soon on down the road.

                                                                                                       ***

Calvin had left Wyatt's after their scuffle, and was now hiding in his shed.

He was sitting in total silence, no music, no television, nothing but the sound of air itself surrounding him. He looked to the lockbox sitting on a nearby upper shelf, and he slid off the stool and walked towards it. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around the edges, pulling it down from its not so hiding spot, and placed it on the workshop table, pulled the key from a drawer of a nearby table and unlocked the box, pulling out a small, black revolver. When he'd first thought about killing Grudin, he'd thought about shooting him, and purchased this pistol, but in the end he figured that was far too easy, and Grudin deserved worse. So he'd kept the gun, but never had a purpose for it, until now. Calvin reached into the box and gripped the pistol by the handle, lifting it and admiring it.

Calvin seated himself back on the stool and looked at the pistol gleaming under the sheds soft flourescent lights. His breathing got heavier, as he thought about his wife...his daughter....Kelly. He couldn't stand all this grief, especially the grief he himself had played a part in. Calvin lifted the gun to the side of his head and placed his finger on the trigger. He shut his eyes, feeling tears roll down his  face, and exhaled. All it would take was one simple gesture. A singular motion and it'd all be over. He'd be with his wife, his daughter, he'd exit this entire mess known as existence. He bit his lip and shook his head slowly. Everyone would be grateful. This was what Wyatt wanted anyway, he knew it. Suddenly his phone rang, and his eyes opened. He reached for the phone on the table and picked up.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Calvin, it's Rachel," Rachel said, "...we're at the hospital. Don't know if you should come, but I figured someone should at least tell you that Kelly is alive."

Calvin felt the air punched from him. Had he really heard what he'd thought he'd heard? Kelly had lived? Impossible. How could that even happen? Calvin set the gun down on the table, thanked Rachel for the information and then hung up the phone, placing it beside the gun before exhaling deeply a few times. Maybe...just maybe...it wasn't time to leave just yet.

                                                                                                        ***

Wyatt, Celia and Rachel were sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, none of them seemingly able to process the fact that Kelly had, somehow against all odds, survived a plane crash caused by a bomb. After a bit of pacing, Rachel put her hands on her hips and looked at Celia and Wyatt sitting on the chairs near the large window.

"I'm gonna go get some food, does anyone want anything?" she asked.

"Cafeteria food or something edible?" Wyatt asked.

"Is now really the time you want to get semantic about quality?" Rachel asked, and Wyatt shrugged; she smirked and continued, "I was gonna go to the deli down the street. I'll bring back whatever, just...tell me what you guys want."

"I want a sandwich, something...italian, with cheese and salami and...whatever," Wyatt said, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet, sliding a credit card from it and handing it to Rachel, adding, "use my credit card, don't spend your own money, I got this. I got everything okay? And bring back coffee. Lots of coffee. Hard coffee."

"Will do," Rachel said, before turning and exiting, leaving them alone. Wyatt leaned back in the chair and exhaled, looking up at the ceiling as Celia crossed her legs and shook her head.

"You know," Celia said, "if you'd told me almost 6 months ago when we met at the reunion that we'd be sitting here, waiting to know the condition of someone we didn't even know then, I wouldn't have believed it. Everything since then has felt so unreal. It's almost been half a year, and...and I just...none of it feels real, Wyatt. Does it feel real to you?"

A long pause, as Wyatt thought, licking his lips.

"...for as long as I can remember, being out of high school hasn't felt real. Graduation just felt like a celebration, but a momentary one, you know? Like a birthday or a holiday or something. Not something that would signify the eternal shift into another moment of life altogether. You go to school for 18 years, and that's not counting college which can add on significantly to that timespan, and then suddenly...you just aren't doing that anymore. I worry about Mona. About whether she'll manage to make the adjustment to adulthood or not, because sure, I managed it, but I don't enjoy it. I wish it hadn't happened. Going to that reunion...it was...it was like going back in time, and it was the first time in years I'd felt like I was actually alive again."

Celia nodded solemnly, listening. She could understand this line of thinking, honestly. While she'd managed to make the transition easier than others, she still yearned for the time of her youth.

"Wyatt," Celia said, putting a hand on his knee, "you know this isn't your fault, right? You didn't cause this. Calvin did this all on his own. Grudin? Yeah, you might be able  to be held at least semi accountable for that, but this? This was all on him. He's dangerous, and...and we need to come up with a plan for the inevitable, because if he's capable of this, I fear he might be capable of anything."

Wyatt nodded in agreement. Celia had brought this up before, and Wyatt wasn't one to argue, especially at this point. Calvin had proven himself entirely unhinged, and willing to do awful things because to him the ends justify the means. Rachel returned a bit after this with food and coffee for everyone, and they waited, chatting, Rachel sharing a lot of stories about her and Kelly in school together to lighten the mood. After a bit, Celia left to go home for her son, Rachel dipped in order to get home to Sun Rai, and that left Wyatt all alone. When Wyatt was finally woken up, being shaken gently on the shoulder by a nurse, his blurry eyes immediately glanced at the watch on his wrist. 4am. He groaned and sat up, wiping the sleep from his face.

"Your friend is awake, and wants to see you," the nurse said, smiling at him, "if you'll follow me."

Wyatt immediately jumped up, best he could, and followed the nurse down a long hall, into an elevator and up three floors. Once there, she led him to a room, opened the door and let him enter. Wyatt walked in cautiously, unsure of what he was about to walk into, but when he saw Kelly, in all her rather undamaged glory, lying in the hospital bed, he felt all the anxiety and fear from the last 48 hours leave his chest. He smiled and sat down in a green metal chair beside the bed as Kelly rolled her head to look at him.

"You look alright," Wyatt said.

"What did you expect me to look like?" Kelly asked, half laughing, half wheezing.

"I don't know, deformed or something, you were in a plane crash for fucks sake," Wyatt replied, "who knows what kind of monstrous Mr. Potato Head deal they'd have to create to salvage your looks."

Kelly laughed, which hurt her chest, but it felt good to laugh again.

"Why me?" Wyatt asked.

"Why you what?"

"Why am I your emergency contact?" Wyatt asked, and Kelly sighed.

"...it was Rachel," Kelly said, "but I changed it after we started being friends, because she and I were still on such shaky ground. I didn't want to list my parents, cause they'd just freak out about it. But you're reserved, you keep a cool head, you're a smart man, and you care. I guess cause I trust you. I also didn't know anyone else to add. I don't really have many friends outside of you guys."

"That's hard to imagine, with how likeable and charismatic you are," Wyatt said, smirking, making her laugh again.

Wyatt wouldn't admit it, but he was so beyond relieved. Since meeting Kelly, he'd really come to genuinely appreciate her friendship, her insight, her enthusiasm. She was infectious in all the best, most non lethal ways, and he would've hated to have lost that just when he was getting used to it. But of course he didn't tell her who put the bomb in her bag, or that Calvin was involved at all. He kept her shielded from all that, because the less she knew the better. He'd already gotten so many other women involved in such sketchy activity, he didn't want to bring Kelly down to that level too. He was tired of hurting women, even unintentionally. He wasn't his father.

                                                                                                      ***

When Wyatt got home that morning, he found that Scarlett and the kids were still gone.

He showered, he ate breakfast, then got dressed to go to work. As he exited the house, briefcase in hand, he had no idea that right across the street, parked on the opposite side, was Angie Dickenson. She jotted down something in her small, black notebook and then watched him pull out of his driveway and head down the road to work. Once his car was well out of sight, Angie climbed out from her own car and headed across the street to the driveway, staring up at his house. So this was where a man of his stature, his importance, lived. She pulled her phone from her pocket and took a few quick shots of it, smiling to herself the whole time.

Some men or worship have churches. Wyatt had a two story suburban home.