"You know that tone people reserve for when something terrible happens?" Boris asked, sitting across from Carol in a little nearby bistro, having lunch. He'd brought her here and then told her to order whatever it was she wanted, his treat, to which she wouldn't refuse; he continued, "that sort of sad but not actually sad tone because they reserve their true sadness for things only pertaining to them? You know, how like when you tell someone your dog died and they just sort of look at you, head cocked to the side, eyebrows doing most of the heavy emotional face lifting, and say something along the lines of 'oh, that's so unfortunate, I'm so sorry!' but you know inside they're just happy it wasn't their dog who died?"

"Are you telling me people aren't capable of sympathy?" Carol asked, lifting her soup spoon to her mouth and sipping broth as she added, "because I don't disagree people do that, but I don't think it's fair to lump everyone in together like that. I know some people are truly sympathetic, empathetic, it just depends on the person."

"I just don't wanna be the kind of person who tells someone something and then has them act like they're sorry when I know, in reality, their life won't really change one bit," Boris said, "I want them to genuinely care."

Carol looked at Boris, spoon to her lips, before she lowered it cautiously and got a concerned look on her face.

"...Boris?"

"I have something to tell you," Boris said, "and I'm hoping you're not gonna like it anymore than I did."

                                                                                           1 HOUR EARLIER

Boris hated going to the doctor.

Not for any particular reason, moreso just because he hated being in large public spaces filled with potentially ill people. He was already old. The last thing he needed was to be specifically susceptible to their sicknesses. Boris turned a page in the magazine he'd picked up from the table nearby and sighed as he shifted in his wheelchair. Hopefully today he'd finally be out of it and back on his feet. He was feeling much better, all things considered, and was starting to get a little frustrated at being stuck sitting down all the time. He didn't know how actual handicapped people do it. They're stronger than he was, though, that much he acknowledged. He glanced at the young lady sitting next to him, in all black with short black hair, looking through a small book.

"What are you reading?" Boris asked politely, as she turned to look at him, seeming almost surprised someone was interacting with her.

"Oh, it's...it's daily affirmations," she replied, "you...you know, things like, um, like telling myself I am beautiful no matter what, or that I am strong enough to get through this day, or that, if I had a bad day, tomorrow will be better."

"Does that actually work?" Boris asked, sounding suspicious.

"...I mean, as much as a placebo does," the woman responded, chuckling lightly, "but it's something, you know? And at least I'm the one making the conscious decision daily to try and make my day better, even if it's just by reading a stupid little sentence or proverb."

"Having that sort of agency makes you feel like you do have control over your life," Boris said, "I understand that."

Finally a door opened and a woman stepped out, telling Boris he could come in. Boris smiled at the woman and said goodbye, plopping the magazine down on the empty chair beside him before rolling himself through the door and following the nurse down the hall. When they reached an examination room, she let him in and told him the doctor would be with him momentarily. Boris sighed and sat in the room alone, looking around at the various tools and instruments hung from the walls or on the countertop. After a minute or two, the door opened again and a youngish man walked inside.

"Hey Mr. Wachowski," the doctor said, "I'm Dr. Alan Learner, you can call me Alan or Dr. Learner, either is fine. Whatever you prefer."

Dr. Learner was a lean, tall young man who looked to be in his mid thirties maybe. He sat on the little rolling stool and pulled himself across the floor over to Boris's wheelchair and smiled at him.

"Is this going to take long?" Boris asked, "I'm supposed to have lunch today with someone."

"Oooh, is it romantic?"

"No, he's my priest," Boris replied.

"Oh," Alan said, "Well now I feel weird. So Boris, have you enjoyed your time in the chair?"

"Actually it was surprisingly enjoyable," Boris said, "after walking for 70 something years, it's nice to kind of finally not have to use my legs for a bit. That being said, I'm not looking to extend it and making it a permanent situation. I'm ready to get back on my own two feet. Or someone else's two feet, whatever is easier."

Alan chuckled as he plucked the chart on the clipboard off the counter that the nurse had left with him and started thumbing through it, checking each page and nodding at various things.

"Then again, it does make people more willing to help me," Boris said, "suddenly people who wouldn't give two shits about me in public are opening doors for me, and that'll be kind of hard to let go of. Sad, isn't it? That you have to be visually disabled in order to get any kind of decency from others? What a shit show this society is."

"Uh..." Alan said, nodding, "yeah, no you're not wrong, um, I have a niece who is blind, but because people don't know she's blind they often do shitty things to her without thinking about it, and only once they learn she's blind - which isn't always something you can tell just by looking at someone - they turn their entire attitude around. It's kinda sick. Okay so, looking at this chart, these ex-rays, you're perfectly fit to stand up again. Honestly, you probably could've a few days ago."

"Thank god," Boris said, "putting pants on was becoming a problem."

"Uh, that being said, I have to ask...were you ever in a car accident?" Alan asked, catching Boris off guard.

"...yes, um, yeah. When I was much younger, when my daughter was little, we had a car accident that disabled her legs for a good majority of her life," Boris said, "I came away rather unscathed, all things considered, but yes. Why?"

Dr. Learner sighed and set the chart down on the examining table, scratching his forehead and looking at the floor. Boris became nervous immediately.

"Um, do you know what Meningioma is?" Dr. Learner asked, "it's a...it's a type of brain tumor. They can often be caused by head trauma, often present in car accidents. They're type of tumor that can develop and grow in the brain and involves the meninges, which are the protective membranes that surround the spinal cord and brain. This means that a meningioma can place pressure on the blood vessels, nerves, and brain tissues and cause potential damage, though typically, in most cases, meningiomas are benign. However, some meningiomas can be malignant and potentially life-threatening."

"...why are you telling me this?" Boris asked, his voice shaky.

Dr. Learner stood up and put his hands in his coat pockets, pacing around the room.

"I wish there were better ways to tell people these sorts of things," he said, "but there isn't. There's no card you can buy for this sort of stuff, you know? Stuff a 50 in it and then just jot down 'hey, you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you!', which is a shame, because I guarantee you it'd be a fairly lucrative market if they tried it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you, sorry I don't a card," Dr. Learner said, standing there, scratching the back of his head, neither one saying a word. Boris stared straight ahead at Alan, uncertain of what his reaction to this kind of news could be. His lip quivered, his eyes wet with tears, he finally swallowed and spoke once more.

"Are...are you...sure?" he asked.

"I mean we can run more tests," Dr. Learner said, shrugging, "but this thing has been in you for ages, and it's likely what resulted in your stroke. I'm sorry, Mr. Wachowski, I never like telling people these kinds of things. It's not fun. I mean, maybe if they're a dick to me then I can take some slight sick enjoyment out of it, but otherwise. Listen, we'll run some more tests, and we'll see what we can do, but the fact that this has been here so long, has developed as much as it has...the outcome doesn't look pretty."

Dr. Learner picked up the chart and sighed before heading for the door. Stopping at it, his hand on the knob, he looked back at Boris.

"I guess it's a good thing you're seeing your priest today," he said, joking, and making Boris chuckle a little.

Dr. Learner opened the door and exited, leaving a very confused Boris sitting there. He thought back to the accident, and he could remember smashing his head into the steering wheel a number of times during the incident. He couldn't believe that after all these years, this sort of thing would come back to haunt him in the way it seemed like it was. Boris finally, reaching out and grabbing the examination table, pulled himself up from his wheelchair and exhaled deeply. What does one even do when presented with this information? How do you even live the rest of your life, knowing it is in fact the rest of your life?

Boris hobbled out of the room and back down the hall, heading back towards the waiting room. As he came through the door, he noticed the young woman he'd been speaking to was gone, but she'd left her little affirmations book on the chair. Boris walked over to it and bent down, picking it up and putting it in his coat pocket. Maybe he could find her and give it back. He then turned and looked at all the little kids in the office, some reading with their parents, some playing with other kids, others clearly very sick. Boris looked at all the younger people, all looking healthy and fresh faced, none even aware of the things coming for them. He headed out of the offices and stumbled into the hallway, then headed down the hall and reached the elevator. As he got inside, he shut the doors, being the only one on board.

Boris waited a moment, then stopped the elevator using the emergency button and put his hands against the wall, steadying himself, as he began screaming, finally in tears.

Isn't life amazing, he had once said to John, just when you think it can't get worse, it always somehow does.

                                                                                                     ***

"What's going on?" Carol asked, sounding genuinely scared, her voice low.

"...I'm dying," Boris said, the words sounding unreal as they escaped his lips, "I have a brain tumor. Apparently I've had it for years. I'm dying, Carol."

"...why did you invited me to lunch?" Carol asked, "it was so sudden."

"Because I was supposed to have lunch with John," Boris said, wiping his eyes on his sweater sleeve, "but, uh...I felt like I needed to approach that with a different tactic, given the nature of our friendship. But you...you don't pretend to be sad, you don't act like nothing has changed. You acknowledge the elephant in the room. I needed that first and foremost. Not that I don't think John won't, but...his reaction will be far more tactful, and I don't need tactful right now, I need rawness."

Carol slowly set her spoon down in her bowl and wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. She exhaled and leaned back in her chair, unsure of how to respond to any of this. She could remember the day Boris had moved into the home, the day they had met, and how they'd instantly become friends. It was nice to know that, even at that age, you could still make friends who felt like they'd known you forever, even if they'd only know you for a brief amount of time. And yet...and yet it never seemed like Boris could die. He struck her as immortal, which was ridiculous, because nobody was immortal, and yet he always seemed like someone who would be around indefinitely.

"Carol?" Boris asked, finally pulling her back into reality, her eyes snapping at him across the table.

"Oh," she replied, putting a hand to her head, "um, I'm sorry. I...I think I drifted off for a moment."

"You okay?" Boris asked.

"...are you?" Carol responded, almost sounding accusatory, before quickly following up with, "for christ sakes, man, you're gonna die. Doesn't that terrify you? How are you so fucking calm?"

"Who the fuck said I'm calm?" Boris asked, his voice cracking, tears rolling down his old face, "what ever gave you the impression that I'm calm? I'm scared fucking shitless right now, Carol. That's why I came to you. Because you're like my oldest friend, and you won't just pretend. You'll make it about you, not about me, and that's why I wanted. That realness."

Carol nodded slowly, sitting back up and putting her hand on the table, Boris slowly reaching onto the table and holding it, both of them smiling at one another.

"...what am I gonna do without you?" she whispered, her eyes scanning the table.

"What you've always done, thrive. You didn't know me for a majority of your life, I think you'll get along just fine," Boris said, "and if all else fails, I promise to come back and haunt you."

"They're doing more tests to make sure?" Carol asked.

"They are, but he sounded pretty certain," Boris remarked, "either way I'll keep you updated."

So they sat there for a bit in silence, hand in hand, old friends, man and woman from two entirely different lives who somehow managed to share a life together, even if only for a little while. It just didn't seem fair, Carol thought, to wait your whole life to find someone who understood you on such a primal level, and then to have to lose them, as if they never belonged in your life to begin with. How was she going to manage? How was anyone who knew him going to manage? She thought back to Polly, and now understood how broken Boris must've been from her death.

"...you know," Carol said, "if you're going to die, you could've sprung for a nicer lunch."

"Oh, you mean like might as well enjoy the finer things in life before I have no life?"

"Exactly, because, don't get me wrong, this soup is fine and all, but some atmosphere wouldn't hurt," Carol said, making Boris truly laugh for the first time in the entire day.

He picked his sandwich back up and resumed eating, while she continued eating her soup, neither one saying another word for the duration of the luncheon, but that was perfect. That was as it should be. Intimacy is at its most intimate when you are so comfortable you no longer need words to acknowledge one anothers presence. That, to Carol, was true friendship. So what if he died. Who cared if he died. He wasn't dead now.

And now was all that mattered.

Wyatt exited the shed momentarily, finding Rachel sitting on the grass, her back against the outside, smoking a cigarette. He leaned beside her and she glanced up at him, then handed him her cigarette, but he smiled and shook his head. Rachel shrugged and went back to smoking. A cool breeze blew through the yard, and Wyatt exhaled, shaking the leaves in the tree overhead the shed.

"You know," Wyatt said, almost laughing, "I never expected to know any of you. In high school, none of us really talked. I think I spoke to Calvin once or twice, but only cause we had similar classes. But you and Celia? Nah. And certainly not Kelly."

"You were too cool for losers like us," Rachel remarked, taking an offensively long drag.

"I wasn't that kind of popular," Wyatt said, sounding defensive, "you know that. I didn't put anyone down, I wasn't a bully. I was a nice guy. I was popular because I wasn't like that. Regardless, I don't have to defend my teenage self, and we're all friends now."

"Yeah but would we be otherwise?" Rachel asked, wiping her face on her sweatshirt sleeve before looking up at him, her messy ponytail swinging behind her as they locked eyes and she continued, "I mean, seriously, would be if we weren't involved in this situation? Think about it, before the reunion we weren't speaking. We all lived in the same town. We shopped at the same grocery store. You and Celia have children in the same school. And yet none of us ever took the initiative to approach one another and start up a friendship. So would we be friends now, if not for what we did? We're friends by proxy of crime, a lot of crime which wasn't even perpetrated by us, for the record."

Wyatt nodded slowly. Rachel had a valid point. She looked away from him, breaking the gaze, and focusing back on her cigarette for a minute or two before putting it out in the grass and stuffing the remains in her shirt pocket, before struggling to stand up. Wyatt held his hand out, and she graciously took it as he helped her up. She brushed her pants off and then looked at him.

"For what it's worth," Wyatt said, "...I'm glad we're friends. Who wants to have friends in high school anyway? It's all superficial. At least this is real."

Rachel smiled weakly, nodding in agreement.

"There's certainly nothing fake about this, you got that right," she said, and together they headed back into the shed. Inside, Calvin was pacing furiously while Celia sat on a stool, drinking a beer. Both stopped their actions upon Wyatt and Rachel's return, and watched Wyatt shut and bolt the door upon re-entry. After a moment, Calvin put his hands on the work table in the center of the shed and sighed.

"...Brighton wasn't an idiot, but he wasn't a genius either," Calvin finally said, "and...and I think I found something linking him directly to Mr. Wattson outside of just the key I took from Leonard. It isn't anything concrete, perhaps nothing even substantial, but I do think it's enough to warrant discussion, even if I still think the connection is strenuous at best and deserves more research before jumping to conclusions."

"How many former teachers are you friends with, Calvin?" Celia asked, "...cause it's not a common thing."

"You keep saying you found something, but we've been here for like two hours and you ain't showed us shit yet," Wyatt said, starting to sound annoyed, "so if you really think you have something, put your money where your mouth is. Let's see it."

"Like I said, it's not substantial, I don't think, but it's curious nonetheless," Calvin said, pulling a video tape from a shoebox and popping it into the tiny TV with the attached VCR before stepping back and pressing play. The screen fizzled to life, static and snow, color bars, and then finally a very blurry Oliver Brighton came into view as he adjusted the camera and then stepped back, waving and smiling into the lens before seating himself on a chair. He appeared to be in the storage unit, surrounded by his boxes of illicit smut.

"Hello," Brighton said, "this is Oliver Brighton, making a sort of last will and video testament. Um, this video is for Leonard Wattson."

"He looks like hell," Celia said.

"Guys, look at the date," Rachel said, pointing with her finger at the screen to the date in the corner of the TV, "this was recorded the night he..."

"Shit she's right," Celia whispered.

"Leonard has been nothing but the best friend I could ever have, and has given me so many amazing opportunities, and that's why I'm taking this moment to thank him personally. He changed my life and allowed me to be who I really was, and for that I'll be forever grateful. But things have changed, and I must sort of tender my resignation at this point, and for that I apologize profusely. Together, Leonard and I made amazing work, and I'll always love what he allowed me to do, but I...I have to do something now that he's not going to be pleased with, so...Leonard, if you're watching this, I'm so so sorry. Please don't be upset with me."

"Why didn't Leonard see this?" Celia asked, "wouldn't you think he'd have left it in a place he'd have easily found it?"

"That's the thing," Calvin said, leaning against the table, arms crossed, "I think, in his disheveled state, he put it in whatever box he could in that moment before he went home and did his deed. I don't think he was in his right state of mind to think about where to properly put this thing for Leonard to see. Regardless, his lack of forethought is to our benefit."

Brighton, on screen, started crying, burying his face in his hands, and for a split second, Rachel felt bad. There was the scared little geeky boy she remembered from school. The quiet, introverted nice boy who'd always helped her on coursework when she'd needed it, who'd even remembered her well enough to say hello to her the night of the reunion. She bit her lip and looked down. She couldn't watch any more of this.

"I'm so sorry, Leonard. I didn't do anything wrong, but I fear I'm going to be the scapegoat for everything, including what we do," Brighton finally said after regaining a small sense of composure, "and I refuse to be used the way you let me use others. Call me selfish, I don't care. I'm selfish. I know that. There's nothing you could say to me, about me, that would make me feel worse than I already feel about myself. I didn't wanna be this way. To like...these kinds of things. So thank you for at least letting me express that outlet, but also fuck you for doing so instead of trying to make me get help. Fuck you Mr. Wattson."

And with that Brighton leaned forward and shut the camera off again, leaving everyone to stand and stew in silence momentarily before Celia crushed her beer can and tossed it into the nearby trash can and belching.

"Nice," Wyatt said, making her laugh.

"I don't think Brighton being a weepy little bitch, and trying to grow a conscience an hour before he murdered his family, is going to do much for his public image. He's trying to alleviate himself of guilt for his part in horrific crimes, and it isn't working. The man had literally an entire storage unit full of, you know what, and trying to act like he's the victim here is just a disgusting power play. If he'd really wanted help, he'd have gotten help. He wants Leonard to feel guilty, that's all, end of story," Celia said.

"How do you not see this as pure straight evidence, Cal?" Wyatt asked, "Brighton literally spelled it out for you! He thanked Wattson directly for his involvement in their 'projects'. I mean what more proof do you need?"

"I just," Calvin said, groaning, running a hand through his hair, "I just wanna make sure, because if we're wrong, we could do a lot of damage. Mr. Wattson is a well respected man, and I don't want to fuck up the life of a man who's not only been a pillar of various communities, but also given me ample opportunity myself. He came back into town and the first thing he did upon seeing me was offer me work and-"

"He's doing the same thing to you that he did to Oliver, dude!" Rachel said, shouting, getting up in Calvin's face, "he's literally buying you off and you don't even know it! He's paying for your silence! By having you close, trusting him, you'll be far less likely to turn on him if and when the time comes, because you'll be so fucking loyal! I thought you were smarter than this, Calvin. I thought you had a moral compass. Wasn't that the entire point behind murdering Grudin? As a crusade for nobility? Because he killed your wife and daughter? But now you're willing to turn a blind eye to a man who helped hurt dozens of kids, and why? Because you trust him? Get fucking real."

Nobody said anything for a moment, but Calvin couldn't help but notice Rachel had made the same point Wyatt had made recently. That he sounded selfish, like he only cared about his own children. In fact, maybe he was, he admitted, but he didn't want to be. He wanted to protect any and all kids from harm.

"Alright, let's all calm down," Wyatt said, "we're not going to solve anything by getting irrational and emotional, okay? Let's just think about this for a moment."

"Think about what, dude?!" Rachel shouted as Wyatt inserted himself in between her and Calvin, "think about how he's a hypocrite? Cause I feel like that's been pretty well established, no need to think about that!"

"Rachel, cool it!" Wyatt said sternly, "I'm talking more about thinking in regards to Wattson's involvement. Yeah, this is...incriminating as hell, honestly, but it's not an outright admission. He never once says, on tape, what he did and who he did it with. For all anyone could know, he could be talking about the same work that Calvin's doing right now, just helping him with his teaching."

"He wasn't even in the city," Rachel said quietly, "remember? How's he gonna help Wattson with his work if he's in another city?"

"She's right, he flew in," Calvin said.

"So now you're on the side of condemning?" Wyatt asked, "after the fight we had in the store, you're finally open to putting blame on him? I'm not saying we shouldn't, but Calvin might be right, maybe we should be one hundred percent certain. We got lucky with Grudin, okay? We got so very lucky. But that level of luck isn't guaranteed again and again, alright? If we're going to do this, it's going to have to be concrete. We have to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's connected, and then, and only then, if he is do we do something about it. But no bombs. I suggested a bomb, but I wasn't in my right head."

"When...when did you suggest a bomb?" Celia asked, sounding shocked.

"Right after we discovered the unit," Wyatt said, looking across the work table at her, chewing his lip, "yeah, I told Calvin we should blow Wattson up too, but I realize now that's a stupid idea. That was risky to begin with, and the only reason nobody realized how stupid it was to connect Brighton to Grudin is because Grudin's wife publicly said she didn't want to put her daughter through that."

"It isn't outside the realm of possibility that Brighton wouldn't know how to build a bomb though," Calvin said, "I had science with him, and he was good. He would do a lot of electrical projects for extra credit. I think the man could've built one if he'd put in the effort, so even if someone did look into that, I think they'd realize he couldn't be full excused."

"Okay, fair enough," Wyatt said, "but he's dead now, and that connection to Grudin is tenuous at best. We won't get lucky this time if we do something to Wattson. They'll come looking for another culprit, especially if it's the same kind of bomb. And then, and only then, will they likely realize the connection between the bomb that blew up Grudin and the one that potentially would blow up Wattson."

"I cannot believe we're even discussing this," Rachel said, walking away from the group, hand on her forehead, "do you...do you even hear yourself when you speak?! You're talking like we're some kind of vigilante group! News flash, bitch, we're not! I'm a barista, you run a hardware store, and Celia's a lawyer! We're not anything special, we're just everyday people!"

A hush fell over the shed, as everyone looked at nothing in particular. Rachel zipped her sweatshirt up and relit her cigarette, taking a long puff before exhaling the smoke into the interior of the shed and shook her head.

"I can't believe you," she whispered, "you know? I thought you guys were good people, but here you are just wanting to blow someone else up."

"I never said I was in favor of that, for the record," Celia interjected, raising her hand, "just, ya know, for what it's worth."

"You're not a saint," Wyatt said, looking at Rachel, "you think you are, but I assure you you're not. You were just as in on the Grudin thing as anyone else, hell, even before any of us. You were here, with Calvin, watching him build the bomb knowing full well what it's intended use was for, so don't act like you're absolved of any wrongdoings, Rachel."

Rachel stammered. She wanted to argue, but Wyatt was right. Now she was being the hypocrite. Besides, after her attempted rape, shouldn't she want to stop men from hurting others? Seemed like they all had a personal grudge against some kind of man in their life, except Wyatt anyway, and that was the common connection that held them together like glue. Rachel leaned against the workshop table, took another drag and sniffled.

"...sorry..." she whispered.

"It's alright," Wyatt said, putting his hand on her shoulder, smiling warmly at her, "it's okay, but if we're gonna keep this thing together, if we're gonna make whatever we're gonna do work, we have to be on the same page, remember? We can't have infighting. That's what leads to failure. Right now it sounds like we're all in agreement. We need more. We need hard evidence. Calvin, you need to bring us something we can point to as definitive proof. This is good, but we need a little more."

"I can do that," Calvin said softly, nodding as he chewed on his thumbnail, his eyes glued to his shoes.

"Until then, no more burning the units contents," Wyatt said, "I know it's cathartic, and the right thing to do in terms of ridding the world of this smut, but for right now, we might need that as evidence if we are going to ever turn it over for exoneration if and when that day ever comes."

"He's right," Celia said, "we're going to need a bargaining chip."

"Okay then, we're all in agreement?" Wyatt asked, looking around at everyone, all three of them nodding; he nodded, "good, okay then. I'm going home. I'm supposed to have dinner with my family, and I said I'd be picking something up, so I can't be any later than I already am."

Celia slid off the stool and pulled her leather jacket back on before catching up with Wyatt, the two of them exiting the shed together. As they walked across the lawn, Calvin and Rachel stood in the doorway to the shed and watched.

"...this is fucked," Celia whispered, waiting until they were properly out of earshot to speak, still keeping her voice low, "this is fucked on so many levels. We're not getting out of this. But if we can minimize our involvement to nothing more than concerned citizens, perhaps we can weasel a deal if nothing else."

Celia and Wyatt stopped at their respective cars in front of Calvin's house and looked at one another.

"Here's the thing, I don't trust Calvin for a second," Wyatt said, "he'll agree to anything then do whatever he wants, he's rash, okay? We need to keep a keen eye on him, alright? Can you help me with that? Rachel's too attached I think to be impartial, I think, so I'm depending on you to help me with this."

"You can count on me," Celia said, patting his chest before heading across the street. The two got in their cars, and pulled away in opposite directions, while Calvin and Rachel stayed standing in the doorway to the shed. Rachel finished her cigarette and tossed it back on the ground, stomping it with her boot before shaking her head, blowing the last of the smoke into the cool night air.

"So what's the plan?" Rachel asked, her arms folded as she looked at Calvin.

"The plan is to get the proper info on Mr. Wattson," Calvin said, walking inside and popping the VHS out from the TV, sticking it in a plastic bag and then putting that inside a small plastic container, hiding it high up on a shelf behind other things in the shed.

"And then?" Rachel asked.

"...and then we see what happens," Calvin said, "for better, or worse. Now shut the door, you're letting in cold air."

And with that, Rachel re-entered the shed, and slammed the door behind her.

Carol exited the cafeteria, holding a sandwich half wrapped in plastic she was biting into, with Father Krickett by her side. As they got into the hallway, they stopped and waited as Carol chewed her bite and John unwrapped his own sandwich he'd bought earlier from a gas station on the way here. After a few moments of chewing, Carol finally swallowed her food and exhaled.

"I think, if all goes right, you could be open by next year," Carol said.

"Really?" John asked.

"I don't see why not," Carol said, "I can have all this paperwork whipped into tip top shape in no time, and other than that, it's just remodeling, right? Which you've already started."

Carol and John turned and began heading down the hallway further, each eating as they talked.

"Either way," Carol continued, taking another bite, "you also have to consider how you're going to pull people into your space. You can't exactly advertise a church."

"That won't be a problem," John said, "I know plenty of people, some from the church I did work at and others not, who have been searching for a place they could practice religion without feeling persecuted by it. That's what this is all about. Creating a safe space for religious queer folk."

"That's a very beautiful thought, John," Carol said, and John smiled. Just then, they heard the sound of something racing down the hall behind them, barreling towards them. Carol and John quickly stepped aside as Boris and Burt came speeding down the hallway, each in their own respective wheelchairs. As they skidded to a halt at the end of the hall, Boris threw his hands up in the air in victory.

"I told you mine was the better model!" Boris said loudly as Burt rolled himself closer, looking annoyed but laughing.

"I suppose I can't argue with the facts," Burt replied.

"What are you two doing?" Carol asked, approaching them.

"We were comparing who had the better wheelchair," Boris said, "if I'm gonna be stuck in this thing I'm at least gonna have some fun with it."

"Alright, this isn't even yours," Carol said, gripping the handles of Burt's chair and wheeling him away, "You took this from Mr. Landerson."

"She's not using it, she's in a coma!" Burt shouted as they headed down the hall, Boris and John chuckling as they watched them leave. John started walking beside Boris as they headed for the door that led to the back of the home, into the garden, Boris wheeling himself alongside the priest.

"I take it you're feeling better," John said.

"I feel like I'm doing remarkably well, all things considered," Boris replied, "but let me tell you John, it was...life changing. I didn't even know what was happening. The last thing I really recall is being in the bathroom, and...and Polly was there, but she was younger. She looked like she did when she was in her twenties, and I was so freaked out. At first I didn't even understand what was going on. I wonder if hallucinating like that is normal."

"I think so," Father Krickett said, tearing a piece of his sandwich off and handing it to Boris, who graciously accepted, as he continued, "but you really shouldn't push yourself. I know you're just happy to be alive, and everyone else is too, but you really need to watch yourself for a bit, Boris. At least until you get a final report from the doctor telling you you're all good."

As they strolled past Larry's flower garden, where he was busy digging into the soil, John smiled to himself. He took another bite from his sandwich as Boris finished chewing and swallowing the bit that John had given him, before John glanced back down at Boris as they stopped right in front of the gazebo.

"When is your meeting for Chrissy?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris sighed, shaking his head.

"Tomorrow," he said, "though I'm not sure how well it's going to go over now, what with me in this chair. I look infirm. They won't exactly be pleased about someone so old, in a wheelchair, taking care of a child, regardless of how much help he has."

"Well, the wheelchair is temporary," Father Krickett said, "I'm sure it'll go fine. They'll be able to tell how much you both clearly care for her, and that's what's ultimately important. But, as always, if anything goes wrong, my confessional door is always open."

"Not until you get that church up and runnin' it ain't," Boris replied, the both of them chuckling.

                                                                                                       ***

"I've never bought furnishings for a church before," Whittle said, standing in the curtain aisle of a department store, running her hands down a very soft mauve curtain, she added, "do churches have curtains?"

"Offices," Sister Jenn said, admiring a different set on the opposite side of the aisle right behind Whittle, "I don't particularly want the sun in my office all day. But no, traditionally, one does not adorn stained glass windows with curtains, you aren't wrong."

"Isn't it kind of sexist to make the nun do the shopping? I thought this church was supposed to be progressive," Whittle said, grinning over her shoulder at Jenn, who just shook her head, chuckling. Lately, Whittle had been helping Jenn find furniture for the church, despite the church still being a ways away from being fully opened. Regardless, Father Krickett had told them that they should have it ready before its opening anyway. So, since Whittle wasn't working at the moment, and had nothing much to do when Chrissy was at school, she figured she may as well tag along on these errands.

"You know," Jenn said, coming to Whittle's side and admiring the curtain she had been looking at, "I...I didn't really want to say this, because I appreciated the help, but I may not even be around to appreciate the outcome. I'm thinking about leaving the church. Nothing's final yet though, depends on a lot of factors. But at least if I do, I'll know I had a hand in making it come true, and making it look good."

"Why are you gonna leave?" Whittle asked, dropping the curtain and turning to face Jenn, who pulled her habit off and ran her hands through her wheat blonde hair.

"A lot of reasons," Jenn said, "some personal, some not so personal. For one thing, I'm not sure that spending my life in the church is the best way to dedicate myself to the lord. I'd rather find my own way to celebrate my relationship with them. But also, I..."

Jenn stopped and bit her lip, looking at her nails before looking back at Whittle.

"What?" Whittle asked.

"I don't know," Jenn replied, shrugging, "just things like that, I guess."

With that, Jenn turned back and headed down the aisle, Whittle jogging to catch up with her. Jenn knew if she never said anything, then she could live in her daydreams forever. The daydreams where she and Whittle were together, and happy. If she said something, and it wasn't reciprocated, that daydream was dead, and right now...well, right now she couldn't risk losing it.

                                                                                                          ***

The following day, Boris, Whittle and Chrissy sat in the hallway of Chrissy's school, waiting to see the headmaster, Kevin Arnold. As they sat there, Whittle running her hands over Boris's wheelchair spokes, she couldn't help but giggle, causing him to look down at her.

"What?" he asked.

"You put a baseball card in here?" Chrissy asked, "Really?"

"It's not a ten speed Boris," Whittle added, laughing.

"How dare you, if I want to be stylish, I'm going to," Boris said, just as they heard a pair of shoes passing by them, and looking up - expecting to see Kevin Arnold - they spotted Father Krickett who stopped in front of them, hoisting a bag on his shoulder and a bible under his arm; Boris raised an eyebrow and asked, "what are you doing here?"

"Teaching a class," John said, "this isn't technically a catholic school, but they do offer catholic classes. I'm just trying to pay my debt to society. Though, if truth be told, the kids don't seem all that invested in what it is I'm trying to teach them. These godless heathens."

"They're children, John," Whittle said.

"Yeah, demon children," John said, making Chrissy laugh as he reached out and patted her on the head before walking away, Boris rolling away after him. The two continued down the hall a bit, side by side, as John opened the flap of his bag and jammed his bible inside, saying, "I kid, but it does make me a bit sad to see so many young people outright reject religion instead of taking what parts of it work for them and using it to bring them comfort and guidance. Yes, it has its problems, and yes a lot of it is outright outdated and wrong, but there's still some good in there too."

"It must be difficult to be a priest in this day and age, it's true," Boris said, "well, if you ever want to be cool and hip with the kids, you could get yourself a wheelchair like me. Then we could cruise together."

"You're almost insufferable in that thing, you do realize that right?"

"Almost? Was I not before?" Boris asked, the both of them laughing just as Boris stopped in front of a woman in a light blue suit standing in the hallway, who glanced down at him; he smiled up at her and tipped his hat, saying, "sorry ma'am, didn't mean to bump into you."

"You're okay," she replied, smiling politely.

That was when Boris realized she was talking to headmaster Kevin Arnold, who looked sour. Boris was confused. Weren't they supposed to have a meeting with him? What was he doing with this woman? Did she work for the school? She was dressed nice, she could be from the schoolboard or something.

"Um," Kevin said, stepping past the woman and approaching Boris, kneeling down to eye level, his voice lowering, "I didn't want this to happen, I just hope you know that. I fought for you. But...the law's the law, and they're her legal guardians, and she...they have every right to take her home."

Boris was so confused. What was he...then it hit him. Chrissy. He was talking about Chrissy.

"Wait, who-" Boris said, as the woman also knelt beside Kevin and smiled weakly.

"My name is Marianne Harris, I'm the social work assigned to the case," she said, "you two seem to have done a wonderful job, but her parents have been undergoing therapy, found ways to work together, and are in a much healthier place than they were before. Chrissy doesn't want to go home, but...well, she's a minor, and she doesn't really have a say, especially when the court has deemed her actual guardians competent enough to raise her again."

"No, no wait a minute, I thought we were supposed to have a meeting!" Boris shouted, "what happened to the-"

"Boris!" a voice screamed from down the hall, echoing off the walls, causing Boris to turn quickly in his wheelchair only to see Whittle standing there as Chrissy clung to her legs while two cops tried to gently pry her from Whittle. Boris felt his heartbeat quicken as he suddenly started racing down the hall, only to watch Chrissy be pulled apart from Chrissy and start to be led away. Suddenly Boris spilled and fell off his chair, his chair rolling onto its side. He looked up only to see Chrissy screaming and kicking as she was carried off, Whittle racing after the cops. Boris felt Marianne and Kevin help him up and back into his chair upright, and as soon as he was wheels up again he took off, racing after them again. As he got closer, he saw John pass him and wrap his arms around Whittle, pulling her back as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, kicking in the air.

"You can't take her!" she screamed, "No! You can't just take her! John let me fucking go!"

Boris was quickly past them, but his arms were sore, and he knew he had no recourse whatsoever even if he managed to actually catch up with them. He finally stopped, watching Chrissy and the cops disappear around a corner, as Marianna hurriedly walked past him, apologizing quietly again, trying to catch up with them as Kevin stopped, hands in his pockets, as he just shook his head dejectedly, watching their pain multiply.

"It's okay," John whispered into Whittle's ear, "just calm down."

"Fucking let go of me!" Whittle screamed, forcing her way out of the priests arms and then, turning and approaching Kevin, slapped him across the face, which he didn't respond to, and then Whittle turned and fell face first back against John, sobbing against his outfit. John glanced at Boris as he rubbed Whittle's back, trying to comfort her.

In a literal matter of seconds, just like it'd happened so long ago with Ellen, Boris's entire world was ripped apart yet again. But this time there were so many more casualties.

                                                                                                           ***

Sister Jenn was hanging curtains when she heard the front doors open and turned her head, still on the stepladder, only to see Whittle entering the building. Surprised, she quickly dismounted the stepladder and wiped her dress off, as Whittle got closer and stopped, looking at the floor.

"Regina?" Jenn asked, "Reggie?"

"...they took her," Whittle whispered, "they took her from us. They ripped her right from my arms. I...I couldn't do anything. They just took her."

"...what?" Jenn asked, clearly confused.

"I need you to tell me something, anything, to make this stop hurting. You're the nun. You're the one with belief," Whittle said, "I need to hear it from someone who genuinely believes in it that this happened for a reason or some bullshit or whatever."

"Well," Jenn said, pushing some of her hair from her eyes, "uh...I won't say it happened for a reason, but...sometimes joy is temporary. You know? You were there in her time of need, and she gave you both something you needed. But...Boris has his own daughter, doesn't he? And things have gotten better with them, hasn't it?"

"...but what about me?" Whittle asked, "I don't have anything."

"Well, yes, you do. You have Boris. You have John and...and myself," Jenn said, "I mean, you came and sought me out specifically because you needed comfort, right? So you do have things. You have all of us."

"...you are comforting," Whittle said, "whenever you come by with John, or like yesterday when we went shopping, I do feel comforted. I don't know if it's cause of your ties to the church, or...or what, but, you are comforting. Thank you. My chest hurts so much. I can't...I can't believe they just...ripped her from me. She told me she wished I were her mother, and now her bedroom is empty, and...I can't go back to the apartment. Not tonight. Not right now. Can I just sleep here, in the church?"

Jenn laughed, then caught herself and apologized.

"Um, well, it's not exactly situated for such a thing," Jenn said, "but I don't think avoiding things is the healthiest way to cope with them, no matter how much they may hurt. After all, from what you've told me about Boris, isn't that what his problem used to be? Maybe he's leading by example now. I don't know your entire life or history, Reggie, but...you're definitely stronger than you might feel right now. I do know that much."

"But I'm good at running from things. Ever since I left my boyfriend and moved in with Boris, I've tried so hard to stay detached," Whittle said, sitting on one of the pews, Jenn seating herself beside her, listening as Whittle continued, "I mean...I've tried going on dates but they didn't work out, I tried not to feel like a mom and now I do, and all it's resulted in is hurting me."

"You didn't run from this," Jenn said, "you ran to me. Not away."

Whittle looked up and their eyes locking.

"...um," Whittle said, stammering, "...well, yeah, cause you...I feel safe around you. I went to temple as a little girl, but, you know, I was never gung-ho about it. I never really sought comfort in religion, but...you make me feel safe. Maybe it's just cause you're easy to talk to, I don't know, but...seeing Boris with John has made me a little jealous, I admit, that he has someone that close that he can talk to. I mean, sure, you and I are closer in age than they are, but..."

Jenn leaned back on the pew, cupping her hands on her lap, listening.

"...I don't know how to say this," Whittle finally said, "especially in a house of God, but-"

"You don't have to," Jenn said, sitting up, "I understand. It's why I'm thinking of leaving."

"I don't think you should leave, I think you should stay," Whittle said, surprising her as she added, "because you're so good at what you do. You can help so many people the way you helped me. But I also...I don't think you need to live your life by the way the church thought you did. That was the old church. This is new. This is your church. You and John are creating a special place here, for people like yourselves, and so what if you're queer, or whatever, you can love people and still be involved in the church. God wouldn't want your pure dedication, and if he does, well, that's an ego I've yet to understand. But I think God would want you to be happy and comfortable, and not alone or afraid."

Jenn felt her breath caught in her chest. Her face flushed. Whittle reached out and put her hand on Jenn's, squeezing it gently.

"...I've...uh....never dealt with this before," Whittle said, "and maybe it's the loss speaking right now, but I need to...I need..."

Whittle started to cry, and Jenn put her arms around her, pulling her into her and stroking her hair.

"i need you," she whispered, and Jenn nodded.

"I am here, and so is God," Jenn said.

After a few moments of this, Whittle finally pulled back, her eyes soaked with tears, her hair sticking to her face, as she looked at Jenn who just stared back and smiled sweetly. After a moment of looking at her, Whittle leaned in and pressed her lips against Jenn's, surprising her. Jenn quickly felt herself being pushed onto her back on the pew, as Whittle mounted her and started kissing her harder, something Jenn took absolutely no issue with. Sure, maybe a church wasn't exactly the right place to be romantic, but tonight, they each took what they could.

Meanwhile, Boris was sitting in the diner, across from John, flipping a container of creamer repeatedly while John looked through the menu. After a few minutes, John looked up and Boris noticed him.

"Are you going to stop that?" John asked, grinning.

"...it's funny," Boris said, "maybe not in an actual sense but more in a sick irony sort of way, that the last time I was in a situation where a little girl needed my help, it was because her legs were broken, and now here I am. Yet another little girl needs me, and I can't chase after her. The world is a disgusting place."

"Everything is beautifully circular," John said, "perhaps just in the worst kinds of ways is all."

The waitress stopped by the table and John ordered food for them both, along with some coffee. He had a feeling they might be here well into the night after what happened that afternoon.

"I have a doctors appointment in a few days," Boris said, "hopefully get out of this chair and get back to my life."

"You aren't locked out of your life cause of the chair," John said, "your daughter was in one, and look at all she managed to accomplish."

Boris smiled, nodding. John always knew what to say.

"...it was kind of fun racing Burt, I admit," Boris said, "maybe I'll challenge him one more time, race around the courtyard, champion of the world style."

"You need to take your joy where you can get it," John said, chuckling.

And nobody knew that better than Whittle and Jenn, who had wound up back at Jenn's apartment, barely able to stop kissing as they made their way inside and fell onto the couch, both breathing heavily, hands exploring every inch of one another. Whittle pressed her lips on Jenn's neck, making her gasp as she pulled her dress off over her head quickly and then felt Whittle sit up beneath her, kissing your collarbones, making Jenn's entire body red. As her eyes canned the room, they landed on a painting her mother had given her when she'd first joined the church. It was a painting of Jesus healing the sick, and she smiled. She buried her face in Whittle's hair and was happy knowing that, for at least tonight, she was healing someone as well in a way she needed.

It didn't make her a saint.

But it at least helped her accept who she was, and that's all that mattered.

Calvin's eyes fluttered open, and he could hear laughter from the kitchen downstairs. It couldn't be. He got up and, tugging his robe on over his pajamas he headed out of the bedroom and to the stairs. He could smell breakfast. Bacon in particular. And freshly brewed coffee. Calvin hurried down the stairs, a grin breaking on his face as he rounded the corner, entering the doorframe to the kitchen and saw his wife standing at the stove, making food. She turned and blew a kiss at him upon seeing him, as Calvin's eyes looked down to the table to see his little daughter coloring at the table and eating cereal. Calvin shut his eyes, starting to cry, until he felt a warm hand on his chest. He opened them and there she was, his wife, standing in front of him, handing him a hot mug of coffee.

"Good morning," she whispered, before leaning up to kiss him. And then he woke up.

Calvin groaned and rolled over, grabbing the pillow next to him and dragging it across the bed to his face, burying it into the pillow and crying silently. When he finally emerged and headed downstairs, he found his parents where they always were in the mornings, in the den, watching the morning news. Calvin - now fully dressed - stopped, hands in his pockets, and watched with them for a moment until his father, Barry, noticed him and smiled over his shoulder at him.

"Heya bud," Barry said, "we missed you at breakfast."

"...wasn't feeling hungry," Calvin said, "I need to run some errands, is there anything you need?"

"Some peaches would be nice," his mother said, looking up from her needlework, "I've been meaning to make a cobbler for a few weeks."

"Sure mom, no problem," Calvin said, smiling weakly as he grabbed his keys off the wall by the front door and exited. These days, the days when he had the dream, were often the hardest to adjust to. The day never felt real. He inserted the key into the ignition once in the car and pulled out of the driveway, heading out to the store. Meanwhile, back inside Barry nodded at the television and his wife, Amelia, looked up.

"That's not the normal weather girl," Barry said.

"Well, maybe she's sick today," Amelia said.

                                                                                                          ***

Truth be told, Kelly Schuester wasn't sick.

In fact, she was at the ranch with Wyatt, while Mona prepared for her horseback lesson, getting changed into her gear in one of the bathrooms. Kelly and Wyatt, as they waited, strolled around the stable, looking at all the horses. Kelly reached into a bag of feed hanging by one of the stalls and came away with a handful of grain, before opening her palm under a horses nose, watching as it chomped away and she laughed.

"I don't know why you invited me," Kelly said, "but I appreciate it! It's been ages since I was around horses."

"Guess when someone stops you from killing yourself, you sort of wanna keep them around," Wyatt replied, shrugging.

"Yeah, what was that all about?" Kelly asked, wiping her hands on her pants, as she walked back to Wyatt and, together, they continued down the stables.

"I don't know," Wyatt said weakly, "things have just been difficult and weird lately. Feeling like I'm disappointing my wife, feeling like I'm disappointing my friends. Hate my job. Everything just feels like it's suffocating me, so I figured I'd do the best thing for all involved and remove myself from the equation entirely."

"That wouldn't be the best thing," Kelly said, "I watched you and Mona interact. Your daughter adores you, and besides, if you died, who would I have to hang out with when Rachel isn't around? Really, you're just taking away my hobby. That's rude."

Wyatt laughed as they stopped and Kelly started feeding yet another horse.

"Anyway," Kelly continued, "I don't blame you for feeling that way. Lord knows I have felt that way too. I think most people probably have, they're just too scared to admit it because they worry it makes them look weak. Society has demonized suicide to such a degree that even the mere thought of wanting to do it is now enough to shame spiral someone into actually doing it, ironically enough. But that's what I think I've learned from it, ultimately. You're not alone in life, sure, because others feel the way you do. But you're also not alone in death, because others would miss you. Nobody can ever really be alone. There'll always be someone to whom you were their entire world, like Mona."

Wyatt felt himself getting choked up, as he nodded, taking her words to heart. Just as they exited the stables, they saw Mona atop her pony, trotting around inside the pen, her instructor right beside her, guiding her carefully, keeping a watchful eye. Upon seeing her father, Mona waved.

"Daddy! Look!"

And Wyatt smiled. Kelly was right. If nothing else, he had to stick it out for his daughter. She was the reason he wanted to change his life to begin with anyway. He wasn't going to take away her biggest supporter now. He would do what his own father never did, and he would be there.

                                                                                                         ***

Calvin turned a peach over in his hand, grimacing. These looked awful. He couldn't bring these back to his mother. He sighed and went back to digging through the peach barrel, trying to find just one, even, that wasn't about to be rotten. He heard a cart stop beside him and turned to look, surprised to see Celia there of all people, leaning on her cart, in the most "mom" outfit he'd ever seen her in. Some sweatpants and a v-neck t-shirt, her hair up in a bun. She smiled at him, as she watched him look for peaches.

"In the mood for some fruit?" she asked.

"My mom wants to make cobbler," Calvin said, "what are you doing here?"

"What does anyone do at a grocery store?" Celia asked, chuckling, making Calvin laugh.

"Fair enough, stupid question," he replied.

"One of my few days off, so I'm getting some errands done. Son's at home with a babysitter while I do this, but once I'm done I figure I'll take him to the park, go get some lunch, mother/bonding sort of stuff. You feeling okay? You weren't exactly in the best headspace last time we spoke."

Calvin shrugged as he picked up yet another over ripened peach, "eh, who can say? At this point, just waking up is good enough for me. I manage each day as it comes. That's really all I can. That's what the grief counselor said."

"You in therapy?" Celia asked, sounding surprised, but Calvin shook his head as he finally found a few peaches he liked and began tearing off a bag to put them in.

"Naw, this was a grief counselor I saw back after the accident," he said, "but she did give me a few good pointers I still use, including that one. Manage each day as it comes. That being said, it's always worse when I have the dream."

Calvin turned and began heading to another section of store, Celia pushing her cart alongside him to keep up.

"What dream?" she asked.

"Every once in a while," Calvin said, grabbing a box of blueberries from a shelf and dropping them into his basket as he continued, "I'll have this dream, or a variation of the dream, where I wake up and my family is still here. The one I usually have, like this morning, is when I come downstairs and my wife hands me a cup of coffee, and my daughter is at the table eating breakfast and...it feels so real, but I never get to do more than take the coffee. I never get to kiss my wife. I never get to eat breakfast with my daughter. It's hell."

"I'm so sorry Cal, that sounds so rough," Celia said quietly, "...but, isn't it at least nice to see them, even if only momentarily?"

"No, it's awful. Because then I wake up to reality, and the reality is they're dead. It's not a dream, Celia, it's a nightmare," Calvin whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes, but he wouldn't cry, he'd never cry about it in public. Celia put her hand on his arm and he glanced at her.

"I have a child, Cal, I can't imagine losing him," she said, "I understand."

Calvin nodded slowly, before hugging her, taking her by surprise, but she just chuckled and hugged him back. It was true that, for all intents and purposes, their children were the thing that connected them all more than anything else, even their shared crimes. That was the one thing nobody could take from them. That connection. And it would be that connection that would ultimately keep them together as allies.

                                                                                                            ***

"She's good," Kelly said, sitting on top of the fence, watching Mona ride, as she sipped from one of the juice boxes Wyatt had brought for Mona to have as a snack; Kelly tossed her hair and added, "I wonder if it's just a thing every little girl goes through, the whole 'horse phase'. Lord knows I was obsessed. I used to take riding lessons and I had a whole cowgirl getup and everything."

"Loser," Wyatt muttered, making her laugh as she hit his arm playfully, causing him to grin. He really enjoyed ribbing Kelly, because he knew she'd never take it seriously. If anything, she had the most self esteem and certainty of anyone else he knew.

"I think it's this feeling of power. Women are often represented or thought of as being powerless, so to have commanding power over such a strong animal, it makes you feel like, 'oh, maybe I DO have control!' and make you feel better about your place in such a male centric society."

"That makes sense," Wyatt said, opening a candy bar he'd pulled from his pocket and biting into it, chewing as he spoke, "and that's what I'm trying to do. I want Mona to be strong, independent, fierceful. I don't want anyone or anything to ever stop her or make her think it could. I need her to be capable of taking on anything. She deserves to feel that sort of strength."

"You're a good dad, man," Kelly said, squashing the now empty juice box in her fist, "like, my parents were alright, but you're really going the extra mile, and that's the kind of thing she'll remember when she grows up."

Wyatt smiled, appreciating Kelly's kind opinion, but thinking about Calvin as he did. Calvin wouldn't get to see his daughter grow up, and he would. That didn't seem fair. He suddenly felt like he was flaunting his life in Calvin's face, and he felt bad about it. He should do something to make up for it, he thought. Get him a gift or something.

"I'd like to have kids," Kelly said, "but not anytime soon. I kinda love my job and want to focus on that first."

"Yeah, you big into weather?" Wyatt asked, grinning.

"Well, I am going to Cloudcon in like less than a week, so," Kelly said, "and I love doing that sort of stuff. Seeing all the new weather tech always gets me excited. Call me a nerd, but-"

"You're a nerd," Wyatt said, interrupting her.

"-I still like," Kelly said, shrugging, chuckling, "besides, I like having something you can predict. Life is often so unpredictable that it's nice that there's at least some aspect of it, even if it's just the weather, that one can predict with some sort of semi-accuracy, ya know? I know it's a lot of guesswork a lot of the time, but it's still kind of comforting. I might not know what'll happen to me tomorrow, but at least I can sort of know what the weather will be like when it happens."

"I'd never really thought about it like that," Wyatt said, hopping up on the fence to sit beside Kelly, "I guess you're right. That is sort of comforting."

Together they sat there, watching Mona start to canter around the arena, Wyatt smiling, so proud of his daughter.

"...they really named this thing Cloudcon?" he asked, and Kelly laughed, nodding; Wyatt shook his head, exhaling, adding, "jesus, they really couldn't come up with anything less dorky could they?"

"Well I'm not really sure what else they could come up with, to be honest," Kelly said, "but yeah, it's kinda lame. They could've at least called it like Weather Works or something."

"That's SO much better it's not even funny," Wyatt said, the both of them laughing.

                                                                                                          ***

Calvin got back home that afternoon and helped his mother put away the groceries, of course presenting her with her peaches, which she was thrilled and appreciative for. For dinner, he even helped her cook, and she made that cobbler for dessert. Sitting there with his parents at the table, listening to them talk about current events or even just memories of old, Calvin did have to recognize he was thankful he still had them. He'd lost his wife, he'd lost his daughter - and in a sense, he'd lost himself - but thank god he still had his parents. Not everyone was that lucky. Rachel, he knew, didn't really have contact with her family, and he knew Wyatt hated his father, so perhaps he should count his blessings where they came.

After dinner, Calvin did the dishes for his folks, then headed out to the shed for a bit, where he did some work for Leonard, knowing he'd have to get this stuff to him in a day or so. After that, he headed back inside, showered, and then, after getting himself a bowl of ice cream, he headed upstairs to his bedroom where he watched some late night TV and old sitcom reruns. After a little while, Calvin fell asleep. When he woke up, he heard the sound of laughter again from downstairs. He pulled on his robe and headed down the stairs, to once again find his wife making breakfast, his daughter sitting at the table. He shut his eyes again, and then he felt his wifes hand on his chest as she pushed his mug of coffee into his hands. He opened his eyes and she smiled, leaning up to kiss him.

And this time he got to feel it.

And then he got to have breakfast with his daughter.

And for the first time in a long time, Calvin had a dream. Not a nightmare.

"Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine."

                                                                                             AN HOUR EARLIER

"You feel okay champ?" Father Krickett asked as he and Boris stood in the back of the store while they set up the display and table for the signing. Boris glanced at John, raising an eyebrow.

"Did you just call me 'champ'? I know you go by 'Father' but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me like you're my dad," Boris said, making John laugh as Boris brought his water bottle up to his lips and drank.

This had been a few weeks in the making, this book signing. Boris's poetry book had actually been doing fairly well, so the next logical step was to have a a book signing. Boris was a curiosity, his publisher claimed; the public always loved when someone of his advanced age managed to come out of the blue and procure a book deal or a film deal or some kind of media. It always, as his publisher had said, 'brought out the hope that even near the end of your life, anything can be achieved'.

"You're not nervous are you?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris shook his head.

"Naw, I'm fine," Boris said, "I mean, it's a little surreal, certainly, but I'll manage. This is honestly something I've been looking forward to my whole life, something I never once dreamed would actually come true. So yeah, it's strange but it's also exciting."

Just then, the woman who had arranged the signing at the bookstore - an intern who worked there - approached; her hair in a ponytail, her shirt tucked into her pants, and holding a clipboard.

"Your table is just about set up, if you're ready to start," she said, "My name is Greta and I'll be helping you."

"Thank you Greta, I'll be ready momentarily," Boris said, waiting for Greta to leave before glancing at John and saying, "Welp, here we go."

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the store, Whittle and Sister Jenn were walking down an aisle, looking at various books on various shelves. Jenn stopped and slipped one of the books from the shelf with her fingertips, admiring the art on the cover until she slid it back into its nook. Whittle reached a magazine rack and pulled it, opening it and flipping through a few pages before stopping. Jenn walked over and joined her, reading from over her shoulder.

"I must be old if I now read magazines about how to make an attractive yet usable kitchen," Whittle said, sighing, maybe Jenn chuckle.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things to be nice," Jenn said, "it's only natural I feel to want your surroundings to reflect who you are as a person and what kind of energy you wish to project into the world."

"That sounds suspiciously like new age talk, you better not let the church hear you speak like that," Whittle said, smirking, making Jenn giggle as Whittle continued, turning to a new page, "honestly though, I would love to modernize that kitchen we have. It's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but I want something better. Something far more...well...modern."

"You sure are good with words," Jenn said, making Whittle chuckle.

"I'm a nurse, not a writer," Whittle replied.

This was the kind of thing Jenn loved. These simple acts of domesticity. Cooking together, shopping together. These were the sorts of things she had begun to crave desperately since meeting Whittle. She'd always liked women, but she'd never acted on those feelings, not even remotely, but for some reason something about Whittle attracted her more than she'd ever been attracted before. Perhaps it was Whittle's interest in her nursing profession, proving she was compassionate, or perhaps it was simply that Whittle was beautiful and funny, but whatever reason it was, Jenn was going crazy imagining a life between them.

"Are you proud of Boris?" Jenn asked, and Whittle set the magazine down, looking back at Jenn.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, absolutely. I always knew he was talented, and it's been great to see him finally achieve something with said talent," Whittle remarked as they continued down the aisle; "that being said", she added, "I just hope he doesn't let all this go to his head and inflate his already questionable ego."

But Boris was, and Whittle knew this deep down, not the kind to be inflated. He was a fairly humble person, which was partially why she had liked him more than most of the seniors at the home. Boris was, however, feeling particularly special on this day as he seated himself at his table, Father Krickett sitting beside him, and he had every right to be, really. After all, he'd worked hard for this, and now he was appreciating the fruits of his lifelong labor. As he started practicing his signature, John opened one of the books from the table and started reading.

"Have you not looked inside it until now?" Boris asked.

"No, I've been so busy with getting this church started I haven't had much time to do anything other than that," John replied, "which kills me, because reading is one of my favorite hobbies."

"Well, I think you'll find something in there that appeals," Boris said, making John smirk.

And just that like, the signing began. People began lining up, some with copies, some without, to have Boris meet them and discuss his work and, in some instances, sign their books. John didn't interfere, he just sat quietly beside them, smiling as he watched Boris appreciate people who appreciated his writing. John flipped through a few pages and read further, impressed at Boris's literary abilities, while Whittle and Jenn came back through an aisle, heading back towards the front of the store, when Jenn stopped and looked at a book on a shelf, her eyes glued to its cover, featuring two women kissing. Her heart skipped a beat, and then skipped again when she realized Whittle was standing next to her.

"You find something you like?" Whittle asked, and Jenn snapped her neck to the side, looking at Whittle, her eyes wide.

"What?" she asked.

Whittle smiled and picked the book up, looking at the back cover.

"It sounds wholesome and cute," Whittle said, "but lord I don't read romance. Besides, not exactly my demographic."

"Not exactly?" Jenn probed, trying to gain insight into this vague statement.

"Well, when I was in college, doing nursing school, I did have this roommate who was also a nurse," Whittle said, sighing, "her name was Kaley, and she was nice, and she was much better than I was when it came to school. One night, at the end of the year before summer break, we were celebrating having both done well that year, which was definitely much more for my benefit considering how much worse I was than her, and we got...I don't know...we didn't sleep together. I've never slept with another woman, and generally, outside of that singular moment I never really have had any interest in doing so, but we definitely kissed and had lots of heavy petting. Course, I was drunk, which I'm sure made it easier too. I think more than anything I was simply appreciate she was there and helping me more than anything else."

Jenn's heart fell. It sounded like Whittle could never be remotely romantically in her, and she looked back at the book as Whittle pushed it back onto the shelf. As she did, she turned and glanced at Jenn, who was looking at Whittle, and for one brief moment, Jenn swore she saw something in Whittle's eyes that said she could have a shot. Jenn approached, reaching out to touch Whittle, but just as she did, Burt came around the corner, and Jenn quickly instead just pushed some of Whittle's hair back over her shoulder, as if she'd meant to adjust it the whole time.

"What are you doing here?" Whittle asked as she turned to face Burt.

"Carol wanted to see Boris's signing, so I tagged along," he said.

"Do you even read?" Whittle asked, and Burt looked hurt.

"Why did you ask that as if you're assuming I'm illiterate?" he asked, making the girls laugh.

Meanwhile, at the front of the store, Carol - who just straight up skipped the line and stopped at the side of the table beside Boris - was also perusing through his book like John had been while Boris signed copies and shook hands. Carol shook her head and scoffed as she shut the book and looked at the cover.

"Amazing," she said.

"Isn't it?" Boris asked.

"No, I meant more that people would want it," Carol said, the both of them chuckling as she set that copy back on the table and, adjusting the purse hanging from her shoulder asked, "so, you sure these people are here because they're impressed, or because you're old and once an artist dies their work increases in value?"

"Little column a, column b I'm sure," John said, not even looking up.

"I'll have you know I'm a picture of health, thank you very much," Boris said, chuckling at John's joke, "besides, I'm a poet and this is my first published work-"

"Yeah but it could be your only published work given your age," Carol said, interrupting.

"-so it's not exactly like I'm high on the list of well known writers," Boris said, finishing his sentence, before clearing his throat and standing up, "I'm going to the bathroom real quick, just please let the good people know I will return momentarily."

Boris stepped away from the table and headed towards the back of the store, to the bathrooms. As he passed by the shelves, filled to the brim with so much literature it made his heart melt, he couldn't believe he was finally able to have a work of his very own sitting in the very same building, on the very same shelves, next to names he'd admired his whole life. He felt like his life was finally complete. He pushed the bathroom door open and entered the bathroom. He used the facilities, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. As he finished washing his hands, he looked up and, lo and behold, he spotted a woman in the mirror behind him, and quickly turned, face to face with her.

"Uh...hello," he said.

"I'm so sorry," the woman said, approaching him; she was wearing jeans and a tight blouse, her hair done in one long braid as she added, "I'm so so sorry."

"...what?" Boris asked, half laughing out of nervousness."

The woman got closer and reached out, putting her hand on his face, and she felt cold as ice. Boris inhaled, surprised at the temperature, and then stumbled against the bathroom counter, trying to keep himself from falling over. The woman stood there and continued looking at him, and it wasn't until he recognized her eye color that he understood. It was Polly, but...but when she was young. How could this be?

"Pol...Polly?" he whispered.

"It's not your fault Boris," she whispered, "this isn't your fault."

And then the bathroom started blurring, everything looking like it was melting. His breathing tightened in his chest and his knees gave out, as he slumped to the floor on his back, Polly kneeling beside him, keeping him company. After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and realized a crowd was forming, and Whittle was right at the front, trying to give him care. Before he knew what was happening, Boris was being lugged outside on a stretcher. As he passed by, he caught a glimpse of Carol, her face twisted into tears, and he could feel John holding his hand the entire way, also crying gently. But the one thing Boris kept noticing was Polly. Polly Polly Polly. Everyfuckingwhere. In every group, every crowd, every spot his eyes managed to land on. As Boris was loaded up in the ambulance and it started speeding down the road, he could feel himself starting to lose consciousness, and it scared him.

"Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine."

And Boris nodded, and then everything went black.

                                                                                                       ***

John Krickett was pacing in the hospital hallway, nervously chewing his nails. This was yet another moment in a series of recent moments where he wished he could find the rosary beads his ex had given him. After pacing for what felt like hours, he turned and looked at Sister Jenn, Whittle, Burt and Carol sitting in chairs nearby.

"Would you sit down, you're making me nervous," Burt said, "Jeez."

"...it was a stroke," Carol whispered, "I know it was. I've seen it before."

"You have?" Whittle asked, and Carol nodded.

"One of the first people I met in the home, her name was Virginia Beams, she had a stroke one day while we were playing a card game," Carol said, "the look on her face, I'll never forget it. It was seared into my memory. That's exactly how Boris looked. I guarantee it. He had a stroke. I just hope it was mild."

John finally sat down, and cupped his hands in his lap as he stared at his shoes. He didn't say anything, he just lost himself in thought. Of course this was bound to happen eventually, how could he have been so stupid to think that what they had would last forever? Boris was old. He wasn't ancient, but he was old. He should've expected this sort of thing, and yet it never once crossed his mind. John sighed and ran one hand over his face and then up into his hair. Boris's mortality suddenly had become crystal clear to him, and the thought of him not being here in his life anymore scared the shit out of him.

Carol, as well, had never really thought about it, which also didn't make sense. She spent all her time around the home, around death, how could she not expect her closest friend to eventually potentially bite it? Carol had nerves of steel, and yet this rattled her to her very core. And Whittle too. Whittle had never once considered the prospect - just like the others - that one day Boris might meet his end. He just always seemed so lively. So...unready to end. But now, all of them sitting there together, contemplating a life without Boris down the road, they realized how grateful they were to currently have him with them, and how desperately they wanted him to be okay. Suddenly the door opened, and a doctor stepped out, shutting it behind her. She turned to the group as John stood up.

"He's going to be okay," she said, "he had a minor stroke, but he's going to be okay. There wasn't any real serious damage, and overall, he should be fresh as a daisy in no time, with some proper care and help."

"Thank god," John said.

And for the first time in a long time, he really meant that.

Scarlett grabbed her paintbrush and jammed it through the easel, tearing it into pieces as she screamed at the top of her lungs. After a few minutes of this, she stepped back and admired her destruction, before tossing her hair from her face and glancing over at Rachel, who was standing nearby in the living room, her eyebrows raised.

"You okay there, champ?" Rachel asked, and Scarlett smirked, plopping the paintbrush in her tin and putting her hands on her hips.

"I feel better now, yeah," she said, "...it's been a rough week."

"You're tellin' me," Rachel said, wiping her own brush down before dipping it back into her glass of water and cleaning it before setting it down and pulling a pack of cigarettes out from her smock pocket, sliding one out before noticing Scarlett watching her, and then decided to pull a second and hand it to her. After they'd slipped them between their lips, Rachel put the pack back into her pocket before pulling out her lighter and lighting them, both women standing there smoking now.

"You're so lucky you're gay," Scarlett said, making Rachel laugh.

"It is kind of a blessing, yes," she replied.

"Seriously,  men are...men," Scarlett said, plopping herself down onto the couch, Rachel joining her shortly.

"Well, we're always looking for new recruits," Rachel said, taking a long drag and making Scarlett laugh.

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't think I could sleep with a woman," Scarlett said, "but I am grateful for your friendship regardless. I don't know that I'd be as sane as I am right now if I didn't have our weekly sessions to look forward to. Plus, I think I'm actually getting pretty good at painting!"

Rachel and Scarlett glanced slowly over at Scarlett's destroyed canvas, and Scarlett shrugged.

"Anger issues notwithstanding," she added.

                                                                                                      ***

Calvin was leaning against his car, hanging out at the river he'd been disposing Brighton's materials into lately, reading a magazine and chewing gum when he heard another car slowly pull up. He looked up and noticed it was Wyatt's car. Calvin tossed the magazine back into the car and then walked around to the trunk of his car as Wyatt parked and, much to Calvin's surprise, both Wyatt and Celia climbed out.

"You brought help?" Calvin asked as Wyatt tossed Celia his keys so she could open his trunk and pull out some of the units contents as Calvin was doing.

"Well, I figured it'd go faster if we had someone else," Wyatt said.

"You look like shit," Calvin said, eyeing Wyatt up and down as he schlepped box after box onto the grass beside them. Wyatt chuckled, leaning against Calvin's taillights, hands in his coat pockets.

"It's been a rough few days," Wyatt mumbled, "I also brought my shredder from my office. I figured the less we had to rely on a single one, the faster this could go."

"Smart thinking," Calvin said, finally getting the last box out and then shutting his trunk before standing now, facing Wyatt, their eyes meeting; Calvin sighed and then added, "I sort of feel like we're doing him a favor, getting rid of this stuff. If we were smarter, more organized, we could give it to the cops and ruin his image, but...then they'd ask how we obtained it, and I don't wanna go down that road. The less involved we are, the better. Brighton can continue to be a martyr, whatever, so long as we don't go down with him."

"Yeah, I can't go to prison for Grudin's death, I have a kid to raise," Wyatt said, before looking at Calvin and adding, "sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Calvin said, smiling weakly, "Let's get this started."

Calvin picked up his shredder and opened one of the boxes, beginning to shred some of the photos inside as Wyatt walked back to his own car and helped Celia pull more of the smaller boxes with some of the tapes inside them out. After a moment she exhaled and wiped the sweat from her brow on her jacket sleeve before looking up at Calvin, then towards Wyatt.

"He's right, you do look like shit," she said.

All Wyatt could do was laugh.

                                                                                                            ***

"The truth of the matter is, like...when you've been with someone this long, it's hard to imagine your life before or after them," Scarlett said, she and Rachel still lounging on the couch, smoking; she took a puff and continued, "like, Wyatt and I have been together for so long that it's hard for me to not only remember my life before meeting him, but also wonder what my life would be without him. I don't wanna sound co-dependent, I'm not, but it definitely is true that your partner becomes your life."

"I wouldn't know, I've never had a long term relationship before Sun," Rachel said, exhaling a smoke ring into the air and chuckling, as did Scarlett, impressed.

"Well, honestly, you might be lucky in that sense. We met in high school. We were kids. In one way it's comforting, you know, to know someone that long? But on the other hand, I wonder if it hasn't somehow stunted us in some way because by having known one another that long, it kind of makes it feel like we're still that age. I don't know, it's all so complicated."

Rachel pushed her cigarette into the ashtray on the table next to the couch and sighing.

"I can't imagine that, honestly," Rachel said, "I would like to. I know it sets the bar super low, but like...your life is my dream. Just have a house, some kids, be a wife. So fucking traditional, but there's comfort in that familiarity, you know? But then I start to wonder what if that breaks down and then I'm trapped? It's scary."

"That's the risk you take for love," Scarlett said, shrugging, finishing her own cigarette and handing the remains to Rachel for her to also dispose of; she let the smoke escape from her lips and then said, "just because I can't see a future without Wyatt doesn't mean I want to, you know? I love him. I love him so much it's like physically a threat to my mental health. But I think so long as you work on maintaining the relationship, then it's all gonna be fine."

A moment of silence passed over the room, and then Scarlett sighed.

"The problem is when they stop working on it," she said quietly, causing Rachel to nod.

                                                                                                           ***


Wyatt and Calvin were seated on the fold up chairs Calvin had brought from his folks place - though he hadn't brought a third as he hadn't expected Celia to attend - while they shredded things. Celia sat on Calvin's trunk, handing them papers and pulling the film out from the VHS's for them to shred.

"I feel like I should've brought my fishing rod," Wyatt said, making them laugh.

"Fuck, I don't think I've fished in years," Calvin said, "my dad used to take me."

"My dad never did that sort of thing with me," Wyatt said, "come to think of it, he rarely did anything with me that could fall under the 'father/son bonding' umbrella."

"Well, my dad used to take me paintballing," Celia said, causing the guys to stop what they were doing and look at her; she smirked and nodded, continuing, "yep, you heard me. You're lookin' at a paintball champion right now. I know I don't look it, but I could whip both your asses with one hand tied behind my back."

"I don't think you can shoot a rifle with one hand tied behind your back," Wyatt said, "I think it's actually physically impossible."

"Semantics," Celia said, "you'll be singin' a different tune when I'm through with you."

"Yeah probably cause you'll shoot him in the nuts," Calvin said, causing them to laugh.

Celia hadn't thought about her father much lately, but maybe she should give him a call. Lately she'd been so caught up in work, and with this situation regarding Brighton's storage unit, that she felt like her personal life was falling by the wayside. Wyatt looked at Calvin and licked his lips.

"You got any gum?" he asked, and Calvin reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a pack and tossing it to Wyatt, who pulled a strip and slid it into his mouth before tossing the pack back to Calvin, thanking him, adding, "you know...this is kind of nice. I mean, not exactly because of what it is we're disposing of, but it's nice to be outside. I feel like I spend all my time indoors, either at home or at my kids school or at the office. Often I feel like I forget what the sky looks like."

"That's poetic," Celia said, "I try and take my son to the park regularly, partially for him, but also partially for my own sanity. It's good to go outside. Good to a part of the world again, even if only momentarily. Even if all I do is sit on a bench and read a book while he exhausts himself, it's still better than sitting in some stuffy room somewhere, it's true. So yeah, fucked up as this situation may be, at least we're getting some fresh air. There's a silver lining to everything."

"That isn't true," Calvin said quietly, causing them both to look at him as he said, "sometimes there's no silver lining. Sometimes life just takes something from you, something that mean the world to you, something that is your world, and there's no upside. No positive. It's just unnecessary cruelty for the sake of unnecessary cruelty. That's the uncomfortable truth many people don't want to face. That sometimes evil just is, and that not everything has a 'reason'. My wife and child didn't die for a greater good. They just died because one man couldn't hold his liquor. That's just the world being the world."

Wyatt grimaced and scratched the back of his head, as Calvin put one of his hands over his face and started crying. Celia slid down from the trunk and approached his chair, stroking his hair to comfort him. Wyatt had never really thought about Calvin's loss, and how immense it really was. Could he even function half as well as Calvin appeared to if something happened to Scarlett, or, god forbid, Mona? He doubted it.

"Well, at least this way we've stopped two men from hurting children," Wyatt said quietly, and Celia looked at him, making him just shrug.

"I guess that's as good a silver lining as any," Calvin managed to say through his tears, before adding, "but it doesn't bring them back."

                                                                                                         ***

When Sun Rai got home that night, Rachel was making dinner. Rachel heard the door close, and heard Sun Rai enter the kitchen before feeling her arms slip around her waist and feeling Sun's face pushing itself into Rachel's hair, breathing her scent in, making Rachel giggle. Rachel set her spatula down and turned around to face Sun, who quickly pressed her lips against Rachel's, surprising her with this level of affection.

"What was that for?" Rachel asked after the kiss.

"I just had a long day," Sun whispered, burying her head under Rachel's chin, as Rachel held her close; Sun continued, "my dad is getting worse, and I don't know what to do about it. Sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day is knowing I get to come home and hold you."

Rachel felt touched, and had to hold back tears. She squeezed Sun to her chest and kissed the top of her head, promising to finish dinner and then hold her longer. For as much as Rachel had admitted she couldn't see herself with someone that long, she also couldn't see her life without Sun Rai in it either. She'd loved her since high school, and had always regretted never making her move, and now, to have her and hold her, it would kill her to have to let go. After dinner, they sat on the couch - Rachel sitting upright as Sun laid across her, her head in Rachel's lap so she could pet Sun's head - and watched awful reality TV.

After they went to bed, with Sun falling asleep first, Rachel laid under the blankets and stared up at the ceiling. How could she have these two lives? On one hand she was living the dream, with a beautiful girl she loved to hell and back coupling with domesticity, and on the other hand she was involved in the most horrifying situation, trying to untie what appeared to be an enormous web of child abuse. She didn't know what to think, and all she knew was that if she didn't keep them separate - or find a way out of the other - eventually Sun Rai would learn of her involvement in Grudin's death, and the framing of Brighton, and then her life would implode in a way she wouldn't be able to survive.

And that scared her above all else.

                                                                                                       ***

"Welp, I'm takin' off," Calvin said, putting the now empty bins into his trunk along with his shredder, and stuffing the folded chairs into his backseat. As he opened the drivers side door, he stopped and looked at Celia and Wyatt doing the same at Wyatt's car.

"You gonna be okay?" Wyatt asked, and Calvin nodded.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Go home, eat dinner with my folks, just try and find some sort of joy in the world," Calvin said, "Wyatt, don't ever let someone take your family from you. It's the most precious thing you can have, and to lose it means losing yourself. Please don't ever let someone do to you what they did to me, intentionally or unintentionally."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wyatt said.

"Thanks for the help. We can meet here again in a few days," Calvin said, "I have some work with Mr. Wattson, but otherwise I'm usually free. I'll call you when I'm ready. And Celia, thanks for coming and helping."

"Not a problem!" Celia said cheerfully, waving as Calvin climbed into his car, started the ignition and drove off back up the little hill and down the road. Once his car was out of sight, Wyatt looked at Celia, who had just finished loading their own materials into his trunk and shut it, her hands running through her bushy hair. She then hopped up onto the trunk and sat there, looking at the early evening sky, as Wyatt joined her to do the same.

"...he's damaged," Celia said.

"Well look at what he lost, honestly," Wyatt replied, "I mean...truth be told, I'd likely be a basketcase if the same thing had happened to me."

"What do we do if he loses it?" Celia asked, and Wyatt looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

"What if he becomes uncontrollable, does something stupid?" she asked, clarifying, "he blew a man up, Wyatt, we can't ignore that forever. He built a bomb and blew a man up. And not just any man, but a local politician. What do we do when he loses it, does something even worse?"

Wyatt shrugged and looked off towards the road as cars passed by.

"Guess we'll deal with that when we come to it," he said, "but, truth be told Celia, I don't see it happening."

Wyatt would revisit this conversation in his head in just a weeks time, and by then, he'd regret not listening to her.

Carol opened the door to the room, and Boris and Burt stepped inside, or as inside as they could, given that most of the rooms square footage was now filled with flowers as far as the eye could see. Boris's eyebrows raised in concern, while Burt immediately started sneezing from allergies.

"These are all for Larry?" Boris asked, "Is Larry in here?"

"We'll need a machete to find him," Carol said.

"I have accepted my floral fate," Larry said from somewhere in the room.

"What's going on here?" Burt asked, "What's with all the flowers?"

Carol pushed further into the room, Boris right behind her while Burt stayed at the door to help control his sneezing fits.

"A few days ago, one bouquet came, and then they wouldn't stop coming," Carol said as Boris pushed some flowers out of his face as they moved further through the room.

"Why?" Boris asked, "He's not a teen heartthrob."

"That's what YOU think," Larry said, still not visible. Carol, meanwhile, pushed a small card into Boris's hands. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, looking at the card.

"Dear Larry Burkstein, we are so sorry to hear of your passing. Our condolences to your friends and remaining family in this trying time. May your afterlife welcome you with open arms," Boris read, before adding, "friends? He doesn't have friends."

"He's also not dead!" Carol shouted.

"Not yet, but leave him in this room for a few days and see what happens," Burt said from the door, making Boris smirk. Boris handed the card back to Carol, who slid it back into her pocket as they continued into the room, finally reaching the bed and finding Larry seated on the bed, with nothing surrounding him but flowers.

"Why do people think you're dead?" Boris asked.

"Like I would know," Larry said, shrugging, "maybe the computer sent out an incorrect e-mail about my demise. I don't know."

"I'm surprised you even knew this many people," Carol said, glancing around at the flowers before turning her focus to the folder under her arm, tugging it out and opening it in her hands, adding, "seriously, this is a health hazard."

"Only for Burt," Larry said, as Burt sneezed in the background.

"Here," Carol said, writing something down and then handing the slip of paper to Larry, who took it and furrowed his brow.

"You're giving me a ticket??" he asked, "Can you even DO that?"

"I run this place, I can do whatever I want," Carol said, "you have 24 hours to remove these flowers from this room, or your shuffleboard privileges will be revoked."

Carol turned, slapped Boris on the arm and he turned with her, and together - with Burt - they exited the room back out into the hall, as Larry shouted, "this is fascism!" behind them. Once the door was closed, Burt, nose still clogged and eyes still watery, excused himself to go in search of some allergy medicine, leaving Carol and Boris to stroll down the hall casually.

"You'd think he enjoys being dead," Boris said, "given how he's reacted to the news."

"He's taking the news of his death fairly well," Carol said, "better than I would, that's for sure."

Boris chuckled and scratched the back of his head, adjusting his hat before asking, "...are you a religious person, Carol?"

"Do I seem religious? I'm not saying I'm not spiritual in some sort of way that's as abstract and vague as religion itself, but I'm not whole hog, no. Why?"

"A friend of mine is starting a church, and I thought that, you know, maybe you'd be interested in doing their bookkeeping considering you've running the home for a while now, so clearly you know how to manage a business of some kind. He's looking for someone to help with managing the finances of the organization, and frankly, I don't think anyone would question a sweet little old lady."

"Sweet? Ew," Carol said, scoffing, before adding, "honestly, it could be good for me to spread my wings a little, and get some more experience under my belt. Then I can pass on whatever knowledge I accrue to whoever takes over the place once I'm gone, whenever the hell that might be."

Boris and Carol stopped in the hall and looked at one another. Carol pulled her files and papers to her chest, clutching them like she was hugging a child, as Boris smiled at her. They each backed away, against the wall, as some other seniors walked past them. After they had passed, they reconvened in the center of the hall, still facing eachother.

"Anyway," Carol said, "sure, have him call me or come see me. I'm definitely interested."

"Well actually, we're having dinner with them tonight, if you want to come," Boris said.

"For sure, that sounds like a plan. I don't think I've ever seen your place," Carol said, "I'll bring flowers. Larry's flowers."

"Like hell you will," Larry muttered, passing by them, making them laugh.

                                                                                                             ***

Sister Jenn, in her civilian clothes, was standing by the kitchen table, watching Father Krickett help Whittle prepare the table. That being said, what Jenny was really watching was Whittle herself. How gracefully she moved, how long her eyelashes were, how lifting her laugh was. Everytime she laughed, Jenny felt a surge of joy shoot through her heart, and this scared her. Whittle stopped and looked at the table, then looked at Jenny, who smiled at her politely, causing Whittle to smile back.

"Does it look okay?" Whittle asked, "We rarely have company."

"It looks wonderful," Jenny said, "what are you serving?"

"Attitude," Krickett said, making the girls laugh as he blushed and stepped away from the table himself; John was wearing a beige turtleneck and green slacks, and he checked his watch as he sighed and said, "alright, well, I'm going to go pick up some kind of dessert, and then we can get dinner into the oven. We have a few hours."

"That sounds like a plan," Whittle said, stepping across the kitchen to the sink and washing her hands down as Krickett headed out the door, leaving Jenny alone with Whittle. Jenny sat at the table and watched Whittle wash her hands.

"Do you have OCD?" Jenny asked, and Whittle chuckled.

"Yes, I do," Whittle replied, "nothing serious, but enough to be an annoyance at times. But, you know, you learn to live with these things. What gave it away, was it all the handwashing?"

"I didn't wanna make assumptions, but, yes," Jenny said, "why are you guys having a fancy dinner?"

"You're invited, you can stay, it's not just for us," Whittle said, wiping her hands on a dish towel and adding, "I mean, John is staying, so. Anyway, we just want to give Chrissy a taste of normalcy. She's scared because of an upcoming parent meeting with her school that we have to attend, and we want to make her feel safe and comfortable before then. Make her feel at home, cause this is her home."

Jenny smiled, touched at how thoughtful Whittle was. She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and nodded.

"I think it's wonderful that you give her a place to feel safe, and loved," Jenny said, "not many children get that, sadly. You're doing a beautiful and compassionate thing."

"I guess when you either had shitty parents or, in Boris's case were a shitty parent, it kind of gives you a new perspective on things," Whittle said, laughing and turning back around to the counter, starting to chop potatoes and getting multiple dishes ready for dinner. Jenny stood up and approached the counter slowly, hands behind her back.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"You can please keep me company, and maybe help me cut these potatoes," Whittle said, sliding Jenny a knife, which she happily picked up and, pulling a handful of small red potatoes towards her, began to get to work on. Chopping through them, hearing the sound of the knives hit the cutting boards with a gentle thud, Jenny was happy to be here, dwelling in simple domesticity with a beautiful woman. Really, aside from praising the lord, that was all she'd ever wanted anyway.

                                                                                                         ***

"She can ticket us??," Burt said, sitting in the lounge area with Larry; he looked concerned, then added, "jeez, I hope she never finds out about the things I do then, or I'm gonna get a lot of tickets."

"Yeah, like what?" Larry asked.

"Like putting my false teeth in the dishwasher in the kitchen," Burt replied, making Larry gag, just as Carol entered the lounge with Boris beside her.

"Are we talking about punishable offenses?" Carol asked.

"Maybe, maybe not," Burt said, shrugging, "guess you'll never know. Sucks to be you."

"No, it sucks to be you, actually," Carol replied, handing Burt a ticket and then clenching her fingertips tightly into his shoulder, whispering, "I have cameras set up, Burt, I see eveeeerything. There's nothing in this facility you can get away with. I have eyes everywhere."

And with that she let go of him and, with Boris, walked away. Larry and Burt exchanged a look, as Burt rubbed his shoulder, grimacing.

"She's scary," Burt said, with Larry nodding in response.

Boris and Carol headed down the hall, towards Carol's bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door and set her things down on her desk before pulling her closet open. Boris leaned against her desk and just watched as she pulled out a few different dresses and then, heading to her vanity mirror and using bobby pins, began putting up her hair.

"So who's going to be at this dinner?" Carol asked.

"Whittle, Father Krickett and his nun friend, myself, Chrissy," Boris said, shrugging, "the usual gang, you know? It's mostly to make Chrissy feel comfortable before we deal with a potentially frightening experience regarding a parent/teacher conference, but I figured since John spends so much time with us, then it would be good to invite you too so you two could hash out a deal of some kind."

"You call your priest by his first name?" Carol asked, clipping on a pearl necklace an then admiring herself in the vanity, "...what's the deal with you two?"

Boris thought about it, chewing his lip. He'd never exactly pursued a relationship with a man, but the thought had, on occasion, crossed his mind. Had he been born in a different time period, had things been different in any kind of way, perhaps he would've, but what he and John Krickett had definitely wasn't what one considered 'normal'. Boris certainly thought of him in a much deeper sense than just a 'friend', but he wasn't sure where he fell specifically in regards to terminology.

"He's my priest, simple as that," Boris said.

"Boris, people don't have their priests over for dinner on a regular basis," Carol said.

"I bet the Pope does."

"Well you're not the pope," Carol said, chuckling as she held up a dress against her and turned towards him, asking, "what do you think of this?"

"It suits you. It sets off your eyes," Boris said, and Carol smiled.

"You know you seem to know far too much about fashion for a heterosexual man of your age," Carol said, turning back to the mirror to admire her choice, and Boris nodded, smirking.

If you only knew, he thought.

                                                                                                       ***

"I went to a religious camp one summer," Whittle said, sitting on the counter, smoking a cigarette as Jenny continued to cut potatoes; she exhaled smoke out the window and added, "which is weird, because my folks weren't even remotely religious, but it was right after my grandma died and I think it set my mom off or something. Anyway it was weird, regardless. Not one of my most enjoyable summers."

"It's not for everyone, and that's perfectly fine," Jenny said, "sometimes I think about the fact that I'm going to dedicate my life to the lord, and I wonder if it's truly what I should be doing. Would the lord be happier with me fulfilling my own desires instead, while still believing in them, or would they prefer me to solely focus my entirety on them? The second feels selfish. What kind of narcissistic God is that?"

Whittle laughed, which made Jenny's heart skip, and she blushed as she continued, still chopping.

"Overall, though, it's...it's something that brings me comfort. I won't go shoving it down anyone's throats, because I recognize it's not for everyone. But for me, personally, it brings me a small sense of comfort to believe that every day there is something watching out for me, wanting the best for me. In a world often fraught with people seeking to do harm unto you, it's nice to believe that there's something that only wants the opposite. I know that sounds stupid, maybe, or even childish, but-"

"It doesn't, you're fine," Whittle said, "honestly, it makes a lot of sense, and it's not the first time I've heard such a thing. You can't imagine how often I dealt with patients on their deathbeds, and suddenly believing in the concept of an afterlife, simply because the concept of nonexistence was terrifying enough to warrant a conversion of belief. I personally don't find myself drawn to it, but I understand it. Especially in times of need."

Jenny stopped cutting and looked down at the cutting board, exhaling. Whittle glanced over, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray on the other side of the sink, away from the food.

"You okay?" she asked, scratching her nose.

"...yes, I'm fine," Jenny said.

Just then the doors opened, and Boris and Carol entered, along with John who they had run into in the hall. Whittle smiled at her little makeshift family, and hopped off the counter to help finish preparing dinner. Whether she was a nurse or not, she just liked taking care of people, she found.

                                                                                                             ***

Later that evening, after dinner was over and a deal between Carol and the church had been struck, she was given a ride home by Boris. When she got to the home, everyone was in bed, and she herself, feeling particularly tired from having to endure social activities, also decided she could use some sleep. She headed to her room, pulling her earrings off as she entered and plopping them on her desk before turning her desk lamp and, in the vanity mirror, screaming at seeing Larry sitting in a recliner, legs crossed.

"What are you, a super villain?!" she shouted, "what are you doing in here?!"

"...I'm not paying this ticket," Larry said.

"Seriously? That's what this is about right now? Larry, come see me tomorrow and-"

"No, you don't get it, it's not because it's a ticket, I found that admittedly sort of funny," Larry said, "but I'm not the Larry they were meant for. This is a mistake. I just happen to share the same last name with another Larry who lived in this home. As a result, they were all sent to me by accident. I'm...I'm not gonna get flowers or anything when I'm gone. This is all I have. So I'm going to appreciate it, even as a mistake, and I won't let even a joke ticket take that away from me. Flowers were my wifes favorite things, and I guess getting them delivered to me kind of felt like she was still here, even if only momentarily, and even if only by accident."

Carol stood there and listened, nodding. She realized that she'd put so much time and effort into the upkeep of the home, but never those who lived inside it, and she really needed to do better, especially for those she considered close friends, like Larry. Larry shrugged and headed for the door.

"I just wanted you to know why I was protective of it," Larry said, "I'll get them out of my room though, and add them to her garden outside."

"Larry," Carol said, snapping her fingers and holding out her hand. Larry smiled and plopped the ticket into her palm, which she promptly ripped up and smiled at him before saying, "good night."

"Good night, Carol," Larry said.

After Larry left, Carol undressed and got into her pajamas, then sat on the bed, where she noticed a tulip sitting on her pillow, and smiled. Maybe Larry was right, she thought.

Maybe it was nice to get flowers.

Wyatt could feel the cool night air blowing through his hair, his hands grabbing the cold steel beside him, his eyes warm and red from the crying. He exhaled and shook his head, trying to regain his composure, because dammit, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it with dignity. Scarlett would understand. She had to. She would tell Mona who would maybe have trouble understanding but eventually she would get it as she got older. Wyatt looked down. The drop was monstrous and, in the night, looked like an empty abyss. All it took was just one small step.

Just one small step and it'd be over.

                                                                                           ***

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Sun Rai said as she pulled a blazer on over her button down shirt, "she's your friend, so I'm willing to go, but still, I can't believe I'm doing it. I'm not even that social a person."

"And that's what I'm trying to change!" Rachel said, coming up behind her and putting her arms around Sun's shoulders, kissing her cheek as she admired them in the mirror, saying, "Damn we look good together. I always knew we would."

"How close were you to this person?" Sun Rai asked as Rachel walked back to the dresser and opened her jewelry box, pulling some earrings from inside and beginning to pin them into her lobes.

"Uh, well, let's put it this way," Rachel said, "She has a birthmark in a very particular place that I have seen multiple times."

"Wow," Sun Rai said, "was it ever..."

"No, god no. We were just friends, but we were the kind of friends who spent all our time together, you know? We were like attached at the hip," Rachel said, finishing her earrings and turning away from the vanity to look back at Sun, adding, "as teenage girls tend to be. Anyway I've always wanted to be her friend again cause things ended kinda shitty between us, so I figured this would be a good way to start that."

"Well," Sun said, running her hands through her long black hair, "I'm sure it'll be a good time regardless."

                                                                                                ***

"How did you think I wouldn't notice?!" Scarlett shouted, "Are you that fucking dense, really?? That's a lot of money to suddenly vanish, let alone the bill that came for the stable! What dad actually tells their little girl 'oh sure you can have a pony' and then fucking does it?!"

"A goddamned good one?" Wyatt asked, pacing back and forth in the kitchen, scratching his forehead, "look, I know, I know, I...I should've talked to you about it, but she..."

"What is going on with you, Wyatt?" Scarlett asked, leaning on the kitchen island, "seriously, what is going on with you? You're buying horses, you're unhappy with work, how the fuck do you expect me to help you if I can't even understand what it is I'm helping WITH?"

"Listen, she wanted a horse, so I got her a horse! Why's this such a big damn deal, we can afford it!"

"It's a big damn deal because you just did it without consulting me! I'm not saying I would've been against it, but jesus christ, we're financially entangled, you can't just go making decisions like that! It'd be like if one of us bought a car for the other! That's a decision you make together, not on a whim!"

Wyatt leaned against the wall, forehead touching paneling, as he sighed.

"...I'm sorry," he said weakly, making Scarlett rub her face with her hands and then approach him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

"I wanna help you," she said gently, "let me help you, pleeease Wyatt, god. Whatever it is that's happening, whatever it is you're dealing with or going through, I wanna help you. I love you. Sure, in the grand scheme of things it's just a pony, it's not that big a deal. It's not like you're killing people."

Wyatt felt his stomach turn.

                                                                                               ***

Kelly Schuester was sitting in the restaurant, waiting for Rachel and Sun Rai to arrive. She was reading a book she'd brought with her, knowing she'd likely be there earlier than they were, and was sipping her drink while reading. She glanced up momentarily now and then, checking around the room to see if she spotted them coming in, and when she didn't she retreated back into her book. Eventually, she heard someone approaching her table and she looked up again, smiling upon seeing Rachel and Sun Rai as they took their seats.

"It's about time!" Kelly said, laughing.

"Well, it takes a while to look this good," Rachel said, making them laugh more; she cleared her throat and continued, picking up one of the menus on the table, "so I'm guessing you've eaten here before? What do you recommend?"

"Oh everything is good," Kelly said, "everything is great. I come here regularly because the network has parties here, so."

"The network?" Sun asked, and Kelly nodded, finishing sipping from her glass and setting it back on the table.

"Yes, um, I work for the news, I'm a weather girl," Kelly said, chuckling, "do you not watch much TV?"

"No, I really don't," Sun Rai said, "between caring for my father and work, I just don't have time."

"What's wrong with your dad?" Kelly asked, before adding, "uh, shit, that was...I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"No, it's okay," Sun replied, smirking at Kelly's awkwardness, "uh,  he had medical complications a while back, and we're just doing home hospice care. I was in medical school, so I came home to help my mother with it. Exhausting, but, ya know...he's my dad, so."

Kelly nodded. If anyone was going to be one to empathize with caring for a parent, it was Kelly Schuester. She loved her mom and dad to death, and they were basically her best friends. This was part of why she wanted so badly to fix her relationship with Rachel, because she wanted friends her own age again, but at this age it was harder to make new friends. Besides, with Rachel she had history.

"So," Sun continued, picking up her own menu and opening it, "do you like being a weather girl?"

"Actually," Kelly said, "in a few weeks, I'll be heading to CloudCon, which is a convention for meteorologists out in Orlando. I have to go every year, see new technological updates to the services we use to predict weather patterns. Actually kind of not looking forward to it for once, it's exhausting having to be approachable every day for a few days straight. At least on television I don't interact with anyone except the viewer, and even then only for a few minutes a day."

"Well, you don't have a fear of flying, do you?" Sun asked, and Kelly shrugged.

"Not particularly. I'm not a fan of going through what you have to to get on a plane, but once I'm on it, I actually kinda like it," Kelly said, "something about being up in the clouds makes the weather girl in me happy."

Sun and Rachel laughed; Kelly's quirkiness was endearing, and that's what she'd made her career off of.

                                                                                               ***

"I guess I just don't understand," Scarlett said, sitting at the kitchen table, sounding annoyed, "because you have a great job but you wanna quit, and I'll support that, I will, but I wanna know why at least."

"Because it's not MY job, it's my dads business, and I'm fucking sick of working under him," Wyatt said, pacing again, "because...because I wanna do something for myself, for others. I wanna make the world better, not clutter it up with more shoddy housing."

"You run a hardware store!" Scarlett said, half laughing, half shocked.

"I know, but it's...it's development, you get it? It's further rape of the natural world," Wyatt said, "When we went to the reunion, I met this old classmate named Celia, and she's an environmental lawyer, and talking to her...I don't know...I guess I just....I realized how disgusting mans grasp on the planet is, and then with Mona getting her diagnosis...I don't wanna make the world a place less designed for her than it already is."

Scarlett folded her legs, nodding, listening as Wyatt continued.

"And then that fuck, Robert Grudin, he was going to give a competing company the go ahead to start ripping out our parks in the city, and build high cost high rise condominiums, and when I..." he had to be very careful how he approached this part, "...uh...when news broke that he'd been blown up, I mean, sure, shocking, but also part of me was weirdly thankful. Kinda like it was nature itself coming back for revenge for how we've treated it."

"...so a man gets blown up and you wanna change your entire life?" Scarlett asked.

"It made me aware of all the despicable things I've been a part of, even if unintentionally," Wyatt said, "just, ya know, by proximity of what I sell and help people accomplish. I felt...gross."

Scarlett sighed and looked away from her husband, shaking her head. She understood, but she didn't at the same time. Wyatt leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed his forehead, groaning.

"...I can't explain it any better than this," Wyatt whispered, "I'm sorry I'm not making any sense and I'm sorry if it's confusing and I'm sorry if it makes you mad. I can't explain it. It's just...I need to do something better. I need to do something more."

"And that something more is buying a horse?" Scarlett asked, biting her lip to stifle herself from laughing as the words left her mouth.

"Alright, well, come on," Wyatt said, "that's...I mean. Can you blame me?"

"Is there anything else you're hiding from me? Cause now's the time come out with it," Scarlett said, and Wyatt chewed his lip, shaking his head.

How could he tell her? How would she understand? He'd just be dragging her into his mess if he did. He'd blown up Robert Grudin, he'd framed Oliver Brighton, he'd discovered a storage unit filled to the brim with the most vile type of media one can imagine. No. She deserved better than that. Once the unit was cleared, they'd be done. They'd be finished. He could get a new job, and get back to being the family man and loving husband he always had been. He was so close to the end, he just needed to reach it now.

"...can we actually afford to keep it?" Scarlett asked.

"Well I'm not getting rid of it," Wyatt replied, "I'm not gonna give her a horse than take it back, that's awful. If I have to, I'll ask my parents for money."

"I thought you said you were tired of being under your fathers thumb, and now you're gonna ask him to support your equine habit?" Scarlett asked.

"It's for his granddaughter, I think he'd be more than willing to have yet another thing to hold over my head under the guise of loving his family," Wyatt said, and Scarlett scoffed, shaking her head as Wyatt moved away from the counter, raising his voice, throwing his arms into the air and saying, "alright then! The fuck do you want me to do, Scarlett?! Huh?! I'm here trying to come up with solutions, and it seems like nothing is good enough! What would be easiest?"

"I don't know, Wyatt!" Scarlett said, standing up, approaching him, not backing down, "but this isn't getting anyone anywhere right now! Why are you so angry at me?"

"Why are you angry at ME?!" Wyatt asked in return.

"Because you're fucking us up!" Scarlett shouted, before putting her hand over her mouth, realizing what she'd said.

A cloud of silence filled the room, as they stood there, staring at one another. Wyatt looked at his shoes and sighed, scratching his nose.

"I...uh...I wanted to give you a good life," Wyatt said, "I wanted to...to make you happy, you know? I've tried my best to do that, but I feel like the ways in which I do are starting to break me down as a person, and I can't hold on much longer. I didn't...I'm not...trying to fuck us up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Wyatt turned and walked out of the kitchen, grabbing his coat on the way out and, before Scarlett could even follow him, was in his car and down the road. Scarlett stood on the porch, watching his taillights vanish in the darkness, before she finally started crying.

                                                                                             ***

Rachel was in the restaurants bathroom, fixing her lipstick after eating, when the bathroom door opened and Kelly walked in. Rachel smiled at her, as Kelly approached the counter, looking at her own makeup in the mirror, checking her eyeliner. Kelly sighed and blinked a few times.

"I hate fake lashes," she said.

"You're wearing fake lashes??" Rachel asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, I don't know...apparently the studio doesn't think I'm 'feminine' enough, despite literally being a tall blonde under her class weight, so I'm doing some things my makeup artist suggested and, god, they're just so itchy. I can feel them on me at all times," Kelly said, pulling them off and laying them on the counter, groaning as she looked down at them.

"...I'm glad you wanted to have dinner," Rachel said, turning to face her friend, "I'm glad we're able to talk again. I'm so sorry for how I treated you at the end of school. I was so busy worrying about my future, about my sexuality, I just...I had to push you away, I hope you understand it had nothing to do with you personally."

"It took a while to recognize that, but I did eventually reach that conclusion," Kelly said, chuckling, "I really missed you, Rachel. I was so mad cause we had made all these plans, but I understand needing to do your own thing. But you were my only friend, and I missed you. It's so nice to be friends again, and your girlfriend, by the way, is amazing."

Rachel blushed, laughing.

"Yeah, she is isn't she? I sure got lucky. An amazing girlfriend AND an amazing best friend," Rachel said, hugging Kelly, who happily hugged her back. Kelly hadn't felt this kind of warmth from someone in so very long, and she was so happy to be feeling it again, and from the person she wanted to feel it from most of all, too. What a lucky girl I am, she thought.

                                                                                              ***

The bridge was empty.

Wyatt pulled up to the side and parked, then stepped out into the black night sky. He looked around, and was somewhat shocked by just how quiet and empty it was. Almost peaceful. God, peace sounded nice he thought. He could actually feel his muscles unclench. Wyatt reached back into the car, opened the glovebox and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, then, seating himself on the hood, began scribbling something down. When his tears wet the paper, he didn't even notice. He had to give them some kind of explanation. They deserved to know. To understand. When he was finished,  he tucked the note into his jacket pocket, then patted it before walking to the rail of the bridge and, hand on the metal, pulled himself up onto the ledge.

Wyatt could feel the cool night air blowing through his hair, his hands grabbing the cold steel beside him, his eyes warm and red from the crying. He exhaled and shook his head, trying to regain his composure, because dammit, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it with dignity. Scarlett would understand. She had to. She would tell Mona who would maybe have trouble understanding but eventually she would get it as she got older. Wyatt looked down. The drop was monstrous and, in the night, looked like an empty abyss. All it took was just one small step.

Just one small step and it'd be over.

Wyatt shut his eyes and felt one of his feet go out over the edge. Just let it go. Let Calvin deal with it. Rachel could have her life she wanted. Scarlett could find someone who could actually make her happy. Just let it go. His lip quivered, his face streaming with tears, when he heard someone behind him.

"Wyatt?" they asked.

His eyes shot open, and he looked behind him. Standing there, arms folded in the chilly night air, in a tight black dress and her braided blonde hair flowing behind her, was Kelly Schuester. She had stopped her car and gotten out, just to approach him. Wyatt and Kelly stared at one another for a moment, as Kelly got closer to the bridge.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked, "...are you...okay?"

Wyatt couldn't respond. He just stood there, shaky. Kelly got up to the bridge and, reaching out, grabbed his extended leg and pulled his foot back to the ledge. She looked up at him, eyes wide and frightened, head cocked out of anxiousness, she reached her hand out.

"Come on, come down," she said quietly, and without thinking about it, Wyatt took Kelly's hand and slowly came down from the bridge. Standing there in front of her, unable to look her in the eyes, he fidgeted nervously with the zipper on his jacket. When he finally did manage to speak, his voice was low, barely audible, and shaky.

"What are you..doing out here?" he asked.

"I was coming from from dinner with Rachel," Kelly said, "...what are you doing out here?"

Wyatt snapped, and fell face first into Kelly's chest, sobbing. Kelly immediately held him comfortingly, stroking his hair.

"It's okay," she whispered, "you're okay. You're okay."

And he was.

For the first time in a while...

...Wyatt Bloom WAS okay.

Rachel hadn't slept well since the discovery of Brighton's storage unit, and frankly, who could blame her.

Now, she just laid awake for hours on end, maybe sleeping for an hour or so at a time, and then when it was finally morning, she just lay in bed, staring at the wall, incapable of gathering to energy necessary to get up and go to work. She felt Sun Rai sit on the bed, and then felt a hot mug pressed gently against her pajama covered back. Rachel rolled over and took the coffee cup, sitting up a bit so she could properly drink it. Sun unfolded the newspaper and started reading, as Rachel tried to get her mind off the sights she'd seen in the unit.

"Any plans today?" Sun asked.

"Work," Rachel replied flatly.

"I have to take my dad to the doctors again," Sun replied, turning a page on the paper, "what do you want to do for dinner?"

"I don't know," Rachel said, barely speaking audibly, her whole mouth in the cup, letting it warm her face.

Silence filled the room once more. Rachel started to feel bad, she felt like Sun Rai probably assumed she was angry with her or something, but god, she couldn't tell her what she and the others had found. She didn't want to involve her in their situation, just like Wyatt didn't want Scarlett involved. It was necessity to have a private and a personal life, and to make sure they stayed separate at ALL costs.

"Fuck," Sun Rai said quietly, "are you kidding me?"

"What?" Rachel asked.

Sun pushed the paper into Rachel's lap, and Rachel couldn't believe her eyes. There, right in the newspaper, was an enormous image of Oliver Brighton, paid for by The Evergreens, which stated, "They killed the world, so he killed his family: a real man puts the world before himself". Rachel felt sick. She quickly got out of bed and went into the bathroom, leaning against the bathroom counter, looking at her coffee mug. She looked from the mug up to herself in the mirror, and hated the face she saw staring back at herself. How much longer could she do this for? And then she vomited.

                                                                                                        ***


Calvin was standing in a department store, looking at small pieces of piping and comparing prices when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and, certain it was Leonard who had somehow discovered what he'd found, he turned around in fear...only to find it was Wyatt.

"Oh, god, you scared me," Calvin said.

"Calm down, buddy," Wyatt said, "what're you doing here?"

"Uh, a pipe in my parents bathroom burst, so," Calvin said, "what about you? Isn't this a rival operation?"

"I like to go through places sometimes, see how others stock things and take note," Wyatt said, jamming his hands in his pockets and nodding, "walk with me for a little bit. How you doing?"

"I think the question is how are you doing? Because you ran off like someone had set your house on fire," Calvin said, "are you feeling okay? Celia talked to me a little bit after you left and told me how distraught you seemed. You know we're all pretty distraught, but you seemed to have a particularly nasty reaction."

Wyatt chewed his lip, nodding.

"Yeah," he finally responded, "yeah I kinda...lost my cool. I went and pulled my daughter from school, we went to a toy store and my wife gave me some shit about it, but I didn't care. Besides, I can't take a woman who used to regularly cut school seriously when she talks about the importance of education. But I feel like hell. What did you wind up doing?"

"I took some of it, burned it and then dumped the ashes in a nearby lake," Calvin said, making Calvin nod.

"Good, good, that's probably the appropriate course of action when it comes to material like that," Wyatt said, stopping in the aisle, causing Calvin to stop and look at him; Wyatt waited a moment, then lowered his voice and came closer, whispering, "and what about Wattson?"

"What about him?"

"He's clearly connected in some way."

"All he did was have a key. For all I know, he and Oliver could've stayed friends into adulthood, and was the other one who had access to it, since Brighton took out his wife," Calvin replied, "there's nothing concrete to connect Wattson, and frankly I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, you know?"

"But what do we do if he IS?" Wyatt asked, sucking on his teeth nervously, "...do we do it again?"

"Do WHAT?"

"You know what."

Calvin couldn't believe this. Was Wyatt actually suggesting what he thought he was suggesting? Calvin waited before answering, trying to figure out how to further this conversation in both a way that would make sense without seeming like he was for it, and also not seem out of place considering they were in public. A couple college aged guys walked past, and once they were around the corner, Calvin finally spoke again.

"You wanna blow him up too?"

"Hey, you wanted to blow up Grudin, not me, okay?" Wyatt said, "you were gonna do that with or without me, and were working on it long before I came onto the scene, so. But this...yeah. This is a direct result of what we did, man. Oliver was blamed for our actions at the Morgana worksite, and as a result, he kills himself and his entire family, then is held up as the man who took down Grudin before he died, because Grudin was directly connected to Morgana's shady business practices. Now Brighton's a pseudo hero, and yet nobody knows what he was actually doing. We wouldn't even BE here right now having this discussion if we hadn't done what we did. Hell, I still can't believe they think he's the one who killed Grudin, but apparently his wife didn't want an investigation cause their daughter wouldn't be able to deal with it. We got so lucky, Calvin."

"And now you wanna push that luck, build another bomb, and blow up someone else?" Calvin asked, sounding annoyed.

"Oh, like you could've grown a moral compass in a few months, give me a break," Wyatt scoffed, and Calvin looked at him wide eyed, jaw somewhat open in surprise.

"Are you even hearing yourself, man?" Calvin asked, "I've felt like shit since it happened and I've been trying to get back to something resembling at least semi-normalcy, and yet you're just like 'hey, let's blow someone else up!'. With no proof, even! If we had proof that Wattson was directly related to Brighton's horrid actions, then yeah, maybe I'd consider it, but if he remembered me from when I was in school, how far fetched is it that he also kept in touch with other former students like Brighton? I'm not saying he's innocent, but I also can't pin something on him with no proof whatsoever."

Calvin shook the pipe in his hand in front of Wyatt's face and sneered.

"Now I have to go home and repair a broken pipe, thanks for the enlightening conversation," Calvin said.

"You're so full of shit, Klepper. You act so fucking high and mighty, but all you cared about was your personal pain, not the pain of those around you," Wyatt said, forcing Calvin to stop in his tracks. He gripped the pipe firmly in his fist and waited as Wyatt continued, adding, "I get that what happened to you sucks, but why wouldn't you wanna make sure other kids can't be hurt too? Huh? Or did only YOUR kid matter?"

Calvin finally turned on his heel and walked briskly back to Wyatt, striking him across the face with the pvc pipe, forcing Wyatt to stumble back as people stopped to look, somewhat in shock. Wyatt, grasping onto a shelf full of faucet handles, leveled himself while rubbing at the cut above his eyebrow and grimaced. Calvin looked around, realizing the small smattering of onlookers, and then reached out his hand to Wyatt, helping him back up. As he stood back upright, Calvin pulled him closer and whispered.

"We're done, okay? I don't know what you and the others wanna do, but I'm done," Calvin said quietly, before letting go and turning to go pay for his pipe, leaving Wyatt in pain, and confused.

                                                                                                   ***

"Jesus, that's...yikes," Rachel said, dabbing at Wyatt's cut.

She was on her break, and Wyatt had come by the coffee shop, so Rachel took him to the bathroom and offered to clean and bandage him. Wyatt, leaning against the counter, sighed as Rachel finished wiping down his cut and started to peel a bandaid to put on him.

"He had every right, I pushed too far," Wyatt said, "I admit it, I shouldn't have said what I did, but I'm just so angry."

"I understand," Rachel said, "I'm sickened too by the whole situation, but he's not wrong. It's weird that Wattson had the key, but it's also entirely plausible that he, as Calvin said, stayed in touch with certain students and Brighton was just one of them. But you, man, you need to find some way to relax."

"How do you deal with it?" Wyatt asked as Rachel finished pressing the bandage to his cut and then backed away, tossing her hair from her eyes.

"I...I don't," Rachel said, "I just keep it bottled up. Not exactly healthy, but better than getting into very public spats."

Wyatt smirked at her attitude, and nodded. She was right. He knew she was right. He couldn't keep doing this, and he was only further endangering them by dragging things into a more open space. They had to deal with things privately, and without fighting. Wyatt reached up and gently touched the bandage, grimacing again as the pain surged and Rachel grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand from his head.

"You don't wanna touch it for a while," she said, shaking her head, "Just go home and relax, okay? Try and take a nap or something."

Wyatt nodded, looking around the bathroom.

"Can I at least get a free coffee?" he asked.

"...fine," Rachel said, laughing as she headed out of the bathroom, Wyatt on her tail.

                                                                                                      ***

Calvin had finished the quick repair in his parents bathroom, and now was back in the shed, pacing, grumbling to himself about his interaction with Wyatt. He stopped and looked at the materials on the wall, some of which he had used to build the first bomb. Calvin reached out and picked up a clicking mechanism used for setting off the bomb and clicked it a few times himself. Why was he mad though? Wyatt had been rude, sure, but...did he have a point, actually? Had Calvin acted purely out of selfishness and grief, instead of valor? The world doesn't need heroes, he thought, at least not heroes like himself.

He sighed and sat down on one of the stools at the work table, turning the little clicker round in his hand repeatedly as he thought about the incident this afternoon. If Wattson was involved, would he be able to do something about it? He'd feel lied to and used, that's for sure, but would he have the stones to go through with another killing? He didn't want to kill people, but he also didn't think certain people deserved to live, and people who hurt children were right at the top of that list. Did that belief stem entirely from losing his own daughter? Perhaps. But it's a noble belief nonetheless, many would argue. In fact, most would argue. He had seen the same paper Rachel had this morning. He always got the paper for his dad before breakfast, and he saw the exact same image The Evergreens had made, and it sickened him just like it'd sickened her.

The only difference was...

...he couldn't let himself stay sickened. He'd already spent far too long being angry at the world. All he wanted now was contentment, and that was exactly the opposite of what Wyatt and others were offering. Calvin groaned and laid his forehead down on the work desk. He was beginning to regret ever having shown them the storage unit.

                                                                                                           ***

Wyatt came into the upstairs bedroom to find Scarlett lying on the bed in her silk robe and her underwear. As soon as she saw his head, she sat upright and scooted down the bed towards him as he seated himself on the edge.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I had a bit of an altercation with a friend, it's fine," Wyatt said, "Rachel patched me up."

"You went to Rachel and not home to your wife?" Scarlett asked.

"This friend is a mutual friend of hers and mine, it's a long story," Wyatt said, "...god it hurts though. Everything hurts."

Scarlett put her hands on both his shoulders and nuzzled up to him from behind.

"Talk to me," she whispered, "you aren't talking to me, and it scares me. We share everything. What's up with you lately? You've been so...depressed, so morose. What's going on with you? I'm worried," Scarlett said softly.

Wyatt sighed and shook his head. What WAS going on with him? He had such a good life. A great job, a wonderful family, a beautiful and fiercely intelligent wife, and two amazing kids. Why would he risk everything, and for reasons he couldn't even explain? He wasn't doing this on purpose. It felt like a higher calling. To rid the world of trash and make it better for his daughter, his son, every other child that was to come. Wyatt took one of her hands and kissed it, making her giggle.

"I don't like the world," he said quietly, "it's a disgusting place, and I just don't want to see it hurt our kids. I wanna make it better. What I do...it doesn't make it better. It provides, it makes OUR lives better, but it doesn't make the world better in the end. I don't wanna be blamed as part of why everything is shit once I'm gone and the planet's fucking uninhabitable. I want to be remembered as someone who did more than just separate plastic from paper."

Scarlett stroked up and down the back of his head slowly, knowing this relaxed him.

"Baby, everything you do is good, okay? You're good. Don't ever doubt that please," she said, "and that's a valiant wish, and if you want to look for something better, something that helps the world rather than harms it I am one hundred percent behind you. I don't care about material things."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow and she laughed.

"Okay, well, I do but...I care about you and your comfort level so much more," she said, resting her head on his shoulder, "...remember in high school, when we were first gonna sleep together, and you told me you were a virgin. That was surprising. I mean, we were almost seniors, and yet you - a very popular athlete at school - was a virgin? Wild. But I didn't care, and when you said you wanted to wait, that was fine. Your comfort has always been important to me. Just as I know mine is to you, okay? We're a team, Wyatt. Remember?"

Wyatt smiled and nodded, turning around and facing his wife. He leaned in and kissed her, as she put her arms over his shoulders. Then, without warning, he pushed her on her back and climbed on her, continuing to kiss her, making her laugh loudly. Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten somehow that - before he'd become entwined with the others - he'd already had a teammate, and that was his wife, and he would do anything and everything for her.

"Well," he said, kissing down her neck, "then let me skip 3rd base and go right to home."

"Wow, you sure know how to talk to a woman," Scarlett replied, cackling as she reached over and turned off the bedside lamp.

                                                                                                      ***

Sun Rai climbed into bed and yawned immediately, but as soon as she was done, Rachel had clung to her, making her laugh. She started stroking Rachel's hair, her head flush against Sun Rai's chest, and smiled.

"I'm sorry for this morning," Rachel said, "I just didn't feel good."

"It's understandable," Sun Rai said, "you don't have to apologize."

But she did. Sun would never know this, but she did. She had to apologize. For everything she'd had a hand in, for this mess she'd help start, a mess that would, inevitably, she felt, be the end of them all. Rachel cuddled up to Sun Rai more and shut her eyes. But whatever came next, whatever horrors awaited them, she didn't care right now. Right now she was in bed with the girl she'd loved since high school, and that was more than enough comfort for her. The world could wait another day.

Her world was all that mattered right now.

The last time the Wachowskis had had a family dinner was...god he couldn't even remember. Maybe when Ellen had graduated from college? Who knew. He couldn't pinpoint it. But either way it had been too long, and it seemed like it was a good way to start being a family again, after Ellen's therapy had been going so well. Boris had told Lorraine he'd pick her up, and pick her up he did. He was wearing a nice plaid button down shirt and black slacks, and Lorraine was wearing a lovely flowing dark blue dress, and had even gone to the effort of doing her hair. As she pulled open the passenger door to Polly's Gremlin, Boris couldn't help but smile at her.

"You look just as beautiful as you did when I first courted you," he said.

"God, you're such a romantic schmuck," Lorraine replied, chuckling, "but I appreciate it," she added as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Boris then pulled the car away from the curb and headed towards the hospice center Ellen had been staying in for a while during her recovery. When they arrived, Ellen, leaning on her cane in front of the hospice, waved at them as they pulled up. She was also wearing a dress, something unusual for her, Boris thought, but happy to see either way. He always thought his daughter looked particularly pretty in dresses. Lorraine got out of the car and opened the backdoor, helping Ellen into the back of the car. Once inside and buckled up, Boris once again pulled away and headed to the restaurant that was holding their reservation.

"You look lovely, sweetheart," Lorraine said, smiling back at Ellen.

"Thanks mom, so do you," Ellen said before looking at her father and asking, "Where are we going anyway?"

"Someplace very very special," Boris said, "someplace you're guaranteed to love."

Ellen smiled and leaned into the backseat relaxing. Lorraine slid one of her hands onto Boris's leg and made him blush. For the first time in twenty years, it felt like the Wachowski's were a family again, and they couldn't be any happier.

                                                                                                       ***

Whittle was standing at the stove in the apartment, making something, when she heard the front door open. She waited, then turned to glance over her shoulder, spotting Father Krickett and Sister Jenn entering the apartment. Krickett stopped and looked around, then noticed Whittle. Whittle waved at him as she lugged the oven door open and slid a tray inside with meat wrapped in foil on top of it.

"Heyo father," she said, "what's going on?"

"Is Boris here?" he asked.

"No, he's out tonight with his family, what's going on?" Whittle asked.

"I just needed somewhere to store some things until this presentation at the bank tomorrow," Krickett said, "do you think he'd mind if we stored it in his room until tomorrow?"

"I don't think he'd care, no, go ahead," Whittle said.

Father Krickett took some of what Sister Jenn was holding and headed down the hallway, leaving Sister Jenn there with Whittle, anxious and awkward. Whittle whistled a little tune, then pulled a chair out from the table and Sister Jenn happily took a seat, pulling her habit from her head and letting her long shiny blonde hair free, tossing it a bit.

"Would you like something to drink?" Whittle asked.

"I'm not a landscaper," Sister Jenn replied, "but sure, if you're insisting."

Whittle laughed and headed to the cabinet, grabbing a glass from inside and then filling it with some juice from a pitcher on the counter. She held the glass out to Sister Jenn, who took it from her, their fingers briefly touching, and Sister Jenn blushing as a result. She took the glass and sipped from it as Whittle went back to making dinner for herself and Chrissy. Sister Jenn watched from the table, occasionally casually sipping her juice.

"So, um, you're a nurse?" Sister Jenn asked.

"Mhm," Whittle said, "though, I have been kind of taking some time off from work to figure out what I wanna do with my life, myself. Broke up with my boyfriend, been on a few dates since then, nothing's really led to much though. Just kind of taking stock of things, you know?"

"That's good," Sister Jenn replied, "it's good to look around and note what is and what isn't important to your life. To figure out what you want from it, instead of going through blindly, just...just taking everything at face value, accepting what it seems like others want from you."

"Well," Whittle said, turning from cutting some potatoes and leaning on the counter, looking at Sister Jenn, "I think the real issue was that while I know I was doing something good, I wasn't...I wasn't enjoying it. It was hard, like, getting attached to people who were going to die soon. That's why I don't mind rooming with Boris, because one old person is more than enough to alleviate my guilt from abandoning so many others."

Sister Jenn cackled and then apologized, but Whittle just laughed and said it was fine. Whittle turned back to the counter and continued her chopping, as Sister Jenn watched. Sister Jenn's eyes wandered, admiring Whittle's outfit. She was dressed in khaki high waisted shorts and a cropped tank top, her hair pulled up to keep it out of her face as she cooked. Sister Jenn could feel her pulse quicken, and she grimaced, hating herself for being ashamed of the way she felt. A moment later, Father Krickett rejoined them, shaking glitter from his hair.

"What happened?!" Sister Jenn asked, as he took a seat at the table, causing Whittle to look at him and laugh.

"I guess Boris created a glitter trap to deter entrants into his bedroom when he wasn't home," Father Krickett said.

"Just be glad it wasn't a bucket of water over the door," Whittle said.

"Who is he, Dennis the Menace?!" Father Krickett shouted, "this stuff is never gonna come out!"

"Oh, you're fine, you're gay so it works for you," Whittle said, making Sister Jenn and Father Krickett both laugh. After a little bit of chat, Father Krickett and Sister Jenn decided to take their leave. As Krickett headed out, insisting he'd be back in the morning for their things, Sister Jenn handed Whittle the glass back and thanked her for the drink. Whittle went and put the glass in the sink, and then headed down the hallway towards Chrissy's bedroom. As she shut the apartment door, though, Sister Jenn couldn't keep her eyes off the former nurse. Lord help her.

                                                                                                           ***

The restaurant in question was a nice family restaurant called Glass Door (a less appetizing name he couldn't imagine, Boris always joked). It was a little ways away from the city, and usually was the place one went when they were to celebrate something. There was always some kind of party or get together happening, and the place was regularly rented out for events even. Entering tonight, even, Boris immediately saw two twin sisters celebrating a birthday, and as his eyes scanned the interior of the eatery, it was nothing but happy families as far as the eye could see. Their hostess led them to their table and seated them, handed them their menus and then told them a waiter would be with them momentarily.

"So...do you remember this place?" Boris asked, sitting next to Lorraine, but across from Ellen, who gently shook her head, chewing on her lip; Boris nodded, adding, "well, that's fine. Maybe you will eventually. In any case, it's somewhere we came often with you when you were younger."

"It's very pretty and the atmosphere is very relaxed," Ellen said, glancing away from her menu, around at the decorations and furnishings.

"We came here when we got engaged," Lorraine said, "god, this place is old."

"You came here when you got engaged?"

"Yeah. We didn't get engaged here, but we came here to celebrate the engagement when we did," Boris said, "course, it was a bit different back then. They didn't start doing this 'family' thing until a few years after that, and hell, it seems to have worked for 'em if they're still here. We also brought you here for your 10th birthday. Do you remember that?"

Ellen waited a moment, thinking, then - in a surprise to both herself and her folks - nodded.

"Really?" Lorraine asked.

"Yeah, I...I actually do," Ellen said, shifting in her seat, "I remember it because you guys forgot it was my birthday."

Boris and Lorraine exchanged a nervous glance, as their waiter arrived at the table.

"What can I get you folks tonight?" he asked, chipper.

                                                                                                        ***

When Whittle opened Chrissy's bedroom door, she was sitting at her vanity, trying to apply eye makeup. Whittle leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling as she watched for a moment before Chrissy noticed her door had opened and turned to see Whittle. Whittle entered the room and sat on the bed, still watching.

"It's hard," Whittle said, "it takes extreme hand eye coordination."

"I don't really care about other makeup, like some girls I know I know wear full faces, but I DO like eye makeup, it's so pretty and makes your eyes look so nice," Chrissy said, sounding exasperated, "but...it's so hard. My hands won't stop shaking, and it all comes out looking so bad."

Whittle knelt down by Chrissy in front of the desk and snapped her fingers. Chrissy turned to face Whittle and handed her the eyeliner. Whittle got to work, doing Chrissy's eye makeup, carefully, cautiously, so as not to mess up. Whittle smiled as she applied, and Chrissy looked confused.

"What?" Chrissy asked.

"This is just the kind of stuff I never got to do with my mom," Whittle said, "she never taught me how to do makeup or anything, I had to kinda teach myself, so it's fun to do it with you. Girls shouldn't have to learn this stuff alone. Just makes me remember being young."

"You're not old," Chrissy said.

"Oh, my love," Whittle said, "I appreciate that SO much."

Chrissy and Whittle started laughing and Chrissy continued to sit still while Whittle worked her magic.

"You know," Whittle said, clearing her throat, "when I was your age, I was asked to a school dance by this boy, and I did my makeup before going, and when I was done, I looked like someone had punched me. Just a big, black circle around my eye. Course, this was elementary school, but still. I looked like an idiot. But practice makes perfect when it comes to this kind of thing, and you only get those days once, so I appreciate even the worst examples I have."

Chrissy smiled, nodding to Whittle's story.

"...i wish you were my mom," Chrissy suddenly said, causing Whittle to stop and pull back, looking at her seriously.

"What?"

"I wish you were my mom," Chrissy said, repeating herself quietly, "You're so nice and you like to do things with me, and my mom is always too busy. She and my dad are always fighting, and they...she never has the time to do stuff with me. She made all these promises and then didn't keep them. You're just...much better at being a mom than she ever was."

Whittle wanted to cry. She felt so bad for this poor young girl, but also so touched at the same time that someone could think that highly of her. Whittle held back her tears and stroked the side of Chrissy's face.

"Well," Whittle said, "for the time being, just think of me that way if you want. If it makes you happy, or feel safe. I don't mind. I'd be more than willing to play pretend mom to such a good kid."

Without warning, Chrissy lunged forward and hugged Whittle tightly around the neck, and Whittle, surprised as she was, hugged her back. Sometimes, and this is what most people don't seem to realize, all a child wants is to be heard. To be told that how they feel matters or means something. Raising a kid is not that hard. It's just that, like many other things in life, people often don't wanna put in the effort.

                                                                                                         ***


Boris, Lorraine and Ellen had sat in silence for the majority of dinner after Ellen's statement, each simply eating their meal, their eyes never leaving their plate. Occasionally Boris would say something to Lorraine, or Lorraine would make a general statement to the table, but overall interaction between the three was minimal. After Ellen finished her steak, she sighed and looked up at her parents.

"This isn't fun," she said, "I don't wanna keep doing these memory jogs if you guys aren't going to accept bad memories. They're still MY memories. I still need to remember them, regardless of how positive or negative they might be. Yeah, so you guys forgot my birthday, so what. You made up for it."

Boris and Lorraine exchanged a look, then looked back at their daughter.

"We did?" they asked in unison.

"...you...you don't remember?" Ellen asked, "the next day you guys took me out of school, took me to a bookstore and told me to get as much as I wanted. No restrictions at all. And not just books, anything they had. Then you guys took me to a little bakery somewhere downtown, and you guys got me the fanciest cake I could find, and we ate the whole thing right there in the bakery together."

"...I...I had forgotten about that," Boris said softly, "fuck, am I really that old?"

"I had forgotten about it too, and I'm in MUCH better shape mentally than you, so don't feel bad," Lorraine said, touching his shoulder, making Ellen laugh.

"You guys screwed up, like...a lot, to be honest, but the one thing you guys always did that other bad parents didn't do, the thing that separates you, is you always acknowledged it, and made up for it in spades, and not because of guilt, but because you genuinely cared," Ellen said, "...you guys are better parents when I'm an adult than you were when I was a kid, but the effort matters nonetheless. But, if we're gonna keep doing this, you guys need to start being okay with the fact that a lot of these memories are gonna be bad, and that that's okay, cause now we can make new better ones."

Boris wanted to hug his daughter so badly. How had she gotten so smart? When had she become so wise? How'd he miss this? He could remember when she was a little girl, asking typical childish questions about things everyone should know but, when you're a kid, you don't, and now here she was, more intelligent and emotionally stable than either of her own folks.

"I'm so proud of you," Boris said, "I hope you know that. I was proud of you then, and I'm proud of you now."

"We love you, honey," Lorraine said, "and we'll try to do better next time."

"That's all I ask," Ellen replied, smiling, "...so...do they have dessert here, or?"

Boris chuckled. She was, deep down, still just a kid it seemed.

                                                                                                       ***

Father Krickett pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he headed for the door. Sister Jenn was seated at a small desk, doing some paperwork for their bank presentation tomorrow. He stopped and glanced at her, and she smiled back at him as he pulled on his gloves.

"You gonna be okay here for tonight by yourself?" Father Krickett asked.

"Eh, it'll only be an hour or so, then I can go home," Sister Jenn said, "...father, can I ask you a question? When we first met, when I first approached you about creating this new church, um...you told me if I was having doubts about my commitment to the lord that I should run and never look back. That...that if I thought I could truly be happier with a woman than with God, that I should do that."

"I recall, yes," Father Krickett said, "Why?"

"I just..." Sister Jenn said, her mind thinking back to Whittle, and her beautiful legs, her soft fingers, that smile, god that smile; she continued, "I just...I'm worried I am not strong enough to resist these urges. That my love for women far outpaces my love for God. Not that I don't love God, but-"

"Let me stop you right there," Father Krickett said, "only you can make this decision. It's a deeply personal thing, and you're the only one who can cement in, and anyone else who would give you advice would only be giving you their lived experience as advice, and that isn't something you should take to heart because everyones experiences with their queerness is different. We all took a different road to get to the same destination. You know that, no matter what choice you make, I'll support you. You're my friend. And we can still work on this together even if you leave the church. But you have to choose that, okay?"

Sister Jenn nodded, then went back to her paperwork. Father Krickett turned and headed outside. He reached into his coat pocket and sighed. He wanted his fucking rosaries back, and he was beginning to get annoyed with not knowing where they were. How's a man supposed to pray when he doesn't have something to pray on?

                                                                                                       ***

"Long night?" Whittle asked, looking up from the couch as Boris entered the apartment. He pulled his jacket off and hung it up, as Whittle muted the television and then turned on the couch to watch him.

"Exhausting, regardless of the length," Boris remarked, "I'd stay up but I gotta go to sleep."

"...Boris, about this meeting with Chrissy's school soon...what do we do if they try and give her back to her folks?" Whittle asked, picking at her nails anxiously, "...like...tonight she told me she wished I was her mom, and I just...I don't wanna see her go back to a home where she isn't properly cared for, emotionally."

"This is important and we should talk about this, but seriously Regina, in the morning please," Boris said, and Whittle nodded, recognizing he was wiped. Boris headed down the hallway and opened his bedroom door, heading inside. Whittle unmuted the television and after a moment Boris came back out into the living room and looked at her sternly.

"What?" she asked.

"Why is there an enormous diorama of the Sistine Chapel on my bed?" Boris asked, "I don't have anywhere else to put it and I can't lay down!"

"Well, John said he'd be back in the morning for it, so," Whittle said, shrugging.

"He's always pushing the lord into my life!" Boris shouted, half annoyed but joking as he headed back to his room, making Whittle laugh to herself. Sure, things weren't normal in their lives, and sure they weren't a real family in the traditional sense of the word, but she wouldn't trade what they had for anything else. Like Chrissy, all Whittle ever wanted was a place where she belonged, with people she belonged with. It had taken a long time to get it, but now that she had it...

...she refused to give it up without a fight.