Wyatt was sitting on the bleachers of the baseball field, staring at the ground. He was still in uniform, and everyone else had left ages ago, it was just him now. He could've gone home, but he just didn't want to. He sighed, pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his hair. That's when he heard the sound of someone approaching, and looked up to see his father, Rufus, coming up to the bleachers, hands in his pants pockets. He must've come right from work, he was still in his suit.

"You alright? Mother said you didn't come home, so I figured I'd find you here," Rufus said.

"I'm....whatever," Wyatt replied, shaking his head. Rufus sat down on the bleachers and exhaled, putting his hands on his knees.

"You know," Rufus said, "this isn't exactly a bad thing. I know it sucks, but...it is what it is. If anything, what you're doing is going to only improve your life down the road. I know it hurts now, but...now is now. Everything hurts in the moment. She wasn't right for you."

"She was perfect for me," Wyatt muttered, sniffling, "and...and I didn't wanna hurt her like that."

"Course you didn't, nobody wants to hurt someone they're dating, or, I mean, sometimes they do but breakups are rarely intentionally cruel," Rufus said, "but Wyatt, you gotta pull yourself tgether. It's what's best for both of you, alright? This Scarlett girl, she's far more your type, she's gonna do wonders for you, trust me on that. That other girl, what was her name, Amelia? You guys were just too different."

"No, we weren't," Wyatt said, "you and she were."

Rufus and Wyatt stared at one another, and Wyatt knew underneath that this comment had made his fathers blood boil. Anytime he managed to stand up, say his father was a bastard, even in a thinly veiled way, enraged him, and that's the way Wyatt liked it.

"Either way, it's good all around. And you know what they say, a good compromise always leaves everyone angry," Rufus replied, smacking his son on the back, "get in the car, we'll go get dinner."

                                                                                                               ***

"This is delicious," Angie said through her full mouth, the enormous burger clenched tightly in her hands; Wyatt had picked her up and invited her out to lunch during his downtime at work, and offered to pay even. Angie couldn't say no to such a treat as this.

"I told you it was a good place," Wyatt remarked, using a toothpick, "their cheese fries in particular are a thing of beauty."

"Isn't it weird how cheese goes with almost everything? It's one of the very few foods that can be adapted to almost any dish, and instantly improves it threefold," Angie said, "you just...don't ever think about how magical it is."

"Did you just call cheese magical?" Wyatt asked, laughing lightly.

He liked Angie well enough, but he was putting on a particularly nice front today, because he needed a favor. A big favor. The kind of favor that could ultimately change a life forever, and he didn't want her to say no. Angie continued eating as Wyatt leaned back in his chair and continued picking at his teeth. He'd barely slept last night, instead staying up, revisiting childhood memories in his head, and when he wasn't doing that, he was spending all his time worrying about today, and what was to come after as a result.

"Listen," Wyatt said, finally tossing the toothpick on the table, as Angie looked up midchew; he sighed and leaned forward, "I need you to do something."

Angie chewed slowly, listening.

"I..." Wyatt said, his voice low, running a hand through his hair as he looked around to ensure nobody would hear him, "...I need you to kill someone."

                                                                                                         ***

The door to the shed opened, and Ricky opened his eyes. The sunlight was refreshing, albeit brief. Calvin had covered up the windows, seemingly just to punish Ricky, so he took whatever little slivers of sunlight he could steal. Calvin entered the shed and shut the door behind, then set whatever it was he brought with him on the workshop table. Calvin didn't even look at Ricky, let alone say a word to him, so Ricky just kept quiet. After a little bit, Calvin reached up to a small metal box on a shelf and pulled it down, setting it on the table alongside the other things, and then finally turned to face Ricky, which made Ricky tense up.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Calvin said, "remember, the other day when you asked what good could come killing an innocent child? You're right. No good can come from it. His wife is the one who really deserves to hurt, and I can't think of a better way to make she she feels the same kind of loss I have than by making her watch her child die in front of her, while she's helpless to stop it, just like I had to."

Ricky got a chill and shook his head.

"No, no man, weren't you doing all this to protect children? You were harming people because they were hurting children, and now you're gonna sink to the same level and still claim moral superiority? You don't get to do that."

"That's the thing, Rick," Calvin said, opening the steel box and reaching in, "I do get to do that. They say two wrongs don't make a right, but that's what I've learned, is that nobody cares about doing what's right. You can try, but you're never doing enough. Someone else is always in the crosshairs."

Calvin pulled his pistol from the box and Ricky felt his skin goosebump. Calvin turned and looked at Ricky, then opened the barrel to check how many bullets were in it, before shutting it again and looking back at Ricky.

"Dude, listen to me," Ricky said, "there's other aveues you can take. What happened to you? That was awful. Unforgiveable. I can't even imagine what it must've been like to-"

"No, that's the thing, you can't. You can't imagine it. You're right," Calvin said, "because it's a special kind of hell reserved for only to unluckiest of souls. To spend your whole believing you're not worthy of being loved, of watching your sister get hurt by people who claimed to love her, and then to somehow get lucky enough to meet someone who does love you? Loves you so much that they don't want anyone else? Someone who loves you enough that they want to marry you, start a family? Only to have that taken from you? Yeah. You can't imagine that. There's plenty of ways one could imagine that kind of loss, grief, pain that someone is experiencing because so much pain IS universal. But this kind of pain? This is unique, and I wouldn't want someone else to feel it."

"Someone except the one who caused it? But she didn't even cause it," Ricky said, and Calvin raised the gun, putting the barrel right between Ricky's eyes; Ricky grimaced and shut his eyes, ready to feel the eternal nothing, but instead he felt the cold metal leave his skin and opened one eye again, to see Calvin putting the gun in the back of his pants, under his belt.

"I'm gonna bring us some coffee, snacks, and then you're gonna tell me everything you know about her like I said," Calvin said, turning and heading back to the door, grabbing the knob, then asking, "Two sugars?"

"P...please, if you don't mind," Ricky said, as Calvin nodded and shut the door. Ricky unclenched his body and swore that he hadn't peed himself since childhood but goddamn if he didn't just come close.

                                                                                                            ***

Sun Rai was in the kitchen, doing dishes, when Rachel came in, putting the cordless phone down on the base. Sun Rai turned and looked at her, surprised by the somewhat eager look on her face. Sun Rai then dried her hands and turned to face Rachel as she came further into the kitchen.

"What are you so happy about?" Sun Rai asked.

"I wouldn't say happy, hopeful is maybe a better word," Rachel said, "I just got off the phone with my mother and I don't want to tear my skin off, so that's progress. Anyway, she invited me to dinner, and I asked if my partner could come, and she said sure. She said she was interested in meeting who I was dating."

"Wait wait wait," Sun Rai said, shaking her hands, "wait a minute, aren't you not out to your parents?"

"I wanna change that," Rachel said, "a friend told me the other day that, like...a lot of stuff I'd been blaming myself for for years aren't my fault, and ya know what? Neither is my shame about who I am. That's associated entirely with my folks. I'm not ashamed of myself, I'm ashamed that they would be ashamed of me, but I wanna try regardless. If you're comfortable with that, I mean."

Sun Rai walked up to Rachel and took her face in her hands, planting her lips on Rachel's, with Rachel happily kissing her back.

"Only if you're sure," Sun Rai said, "I'll do anything you want. I want to support you."

"And maybe I can start coming to your folks, helping you with your dad and stuff? I mean, that's...that's what partners do, right? We share one anothers lives."

"I'd love if you did," Sun Rai said, leaning back in and kissing her again. Rachel was terrified, she couldn't deny that, but at this point, after all she'd been through, been a part of, god, being openly queer was the last thing she should ever be scared of, no matter what her parents reactions might be. And really, it didn't matter. All that mattered was her happiness, and right now had that in spades, kissing the girl she'd loved a good percentage of her life in her kitchen, and nobody could take that away from her.

                                                                                                         ***

Angie was staring at Wyatt, still chewing. She finished chewing, picked up her glass and took a long sip, then set the glass back down on the table and folded her arms.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"You said you'd help me," Wyatt said, "you said...you said I saved your life, that unlike Brighton I was a selfless kind of savior, and you'd rather help me than someone who was nothing more than a wrongfully selected martyr responsible for horrible actions. Those were your words, Angie. So I need your help. Calvin is gonna kill a child. A mother too, but the child is my actual concern. This little girl is developmentally disabled, mentally challenged, and my own daughter has some of these types of issues. I...I'd feel personally responsible if I didn't try to stop him."

"How have you tried?"

"Every possible avenue has been exhausted at this point short of going to the police, but that would just incriminate all of us and I can't do that to Rachel and Celia," Wyatt said, looking down at the table,, at his hands, sniffling, "...Angie please. I don't know what else to do. Where else to turn. I...I need you."

Angie felt for Wyatt, she did. His words were coming from the heart, and he was doing this for a good reason. But she'd never killed anyone before. Could she even do it? She chewed on her lip and thought briefly. She exhaled and looked at the table.

"I wanna help you," she said, "and I would, but...but this is a big ask, Wyatt."

"I know. But rest assured, if anything comes of it as a result, I will make sure you aren't held responsible. I'll take the blame," Wyatt said, "you don't deserve to go down for something you're only tangentially related to. This is our mess, but...but right now we need help keeping it in check. If Calvin does what he's saying he'll do...he's gonna ruin all our lives in addition to murdering a child. Rachel doesn't deserve that. Celia has a son, she doesn't deserve to be taken away from him. If anything, I'm the only other one remotely responsible for what happened to Robert Grudin. I'll be the one taking the fall. But they don't deserve that."

Angie leaned back again and sighed. This was a huge thing to be asked, but Wyatt was doing this for such good reasons. Not only to save his friends from recourse, but also to save the life of a literal handicapped child.

"...how do we do it?" Angie asked.

"I have a plan," Wyatt said, "but...it's gonna be shaky."

"Like anything in my life has been anything but," Angie replied quietly.

                                                                                                            ***

That evening, Calvin made dinner for his folks. Something just told him, in his gut, to do something nice, likely to offset the evil shit he was about to attempt. Afterwards, while he was doing the dishes and his parents were watching TV in the living room, eating ice cream, he thought about some of the things Ricky had said, and he grimaced. He knew Ricky was right. Hell, he knew what he was going to do was wrong on so many levels, but...but the idea that Grudin's child was alive, the idea that Grudin's wife was coming after them, after everything Grudin took from him, it just made him so mad. Blinded him with irrational rage, allowing him to justify things he otherwise normally wouldn't. He set the brush down on the edge of the sink and put the wet plates on the side to dry when the landline on the wall rang. Calvin went and picked it up.

"Hello?" he asked.

"It's me," Wyatt said, "what are you doing tomorrow?"

"I have some plans, but not til much later in the evening, why?" Calvin asked.

"Cause I wanted to see if you wanted to meet, discuss some things. I think you need someone to talk to," Wyatt said, and Calvin paused, hesitant, chewing on his cheek.

"...you wanna talk to me? Because the last time you and I were alone, you told me you were going to kill me," Calvin said, "and now you wanna talk to me?"

"I just wanna talk with you before you go through with whatever it is you're planning on doing," Wyatt said, "just humor me. If I can't talk sense into you, then feel free to go along with your plan, but let's at least discuss it first, yeah?"

Calvin sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. He glanced towards the living room, hearing his parents laugh, and he scratched his forehead.

"Alright," Calvin said, "tomorrow evening. Maybe 7pm. Meet me by the river where we shredded the stuff from the unit."

"Sounds good," Wyatt said, before they each said goodbye and respectively hung up. Sitting in his car, Wyatt looked at his cell phone and shook his head. Angie bit into her ice cream cone and patted him on the back.

"This is the right thing, you know," she said, "he's dangerous."

"I know," Wyatt whispered. But it being the right thing didn't mean he wanted to go through with it. He wanted to actually find a middle ground they could agree on. Some other kind of less violent vengeance or something. But he knew it was of no use. He knew Calvin had made up his mind a long time ago. Wyatt started the car and began driving, taking Angie home. There was never a middle ground, and besides, like his father had tried to tell him, a good compromise always leaves everyone mad.

The church was beautiful.

All the efforts John and Jenn had put into it had paid off. Walking inside, John helping him along, Boris was impressed. He'd been inside a few churches in his life, but never one that felt this homey, this welcoming...one he'd willingly chosen to go to. John and Boris continued, until they reached the pew in the front right side and Boris sat down, groaning as he did, breathing heavily. John sat down beside him, crossing his legs, resting his elbows on the back of the pew. Neither one said a word for a while, just instead admiring the sight of the moonlight through the stained glass windows, the absence of sound, the birth of silence.

"...Is it true God is everywhere?" Boris asked, and John shrugged.

"Depends on your interpretation. Frankly, between you and me, I hope not. Bathroom time is private time," John said.

"But he's in every church," Boris said, and John nodded.

"Well, they're his home, he'd have to be," John said, and Boris scoffed.

"God's nothing but a landlord," Boris said, making John put his head back and cackle; Boris continued, "he's got all this property he has to pay no taxes on, people who do all his work for him, give him money. God's a moocher. And yet here we are, praising him, worshipping him. But I suppose, if the scripture is real, and his love is divine, then-"

"The scripture doesn't matter," John said, surprising Boris, who looked at him; John chewed his lip and continued, "it's just words, Boris. Vagueries. Conceptual ideas about ways to live your life, not a manual. What matters is interpretation. That's why I said, depends on your interpretation. We all approach our relationship with the lord in a different way, no one way is right and no one way is wrong. Whatever works for us works for us, and for him, so the question then becomes...is his love divine to you?"

Boris stared back ahead at the stage of the church and thought. Here he was, sitting in a partial suit, as if he was expecting to be here tonight when really it had been a whim, and now he was appropriately dressed, being asked if God's love was divine to him? Boris bit his lip and furrowed his brow.

"It isn't, no," Boris said, surprising John; Boris coughed, clearing his throat and added, "that...that isn't to say it isn't worthwhile. I think I've found some kind of peace from it. But the love that is divine to me...it doesn't come from God, it comes from other people, people who mattered while I was here. People like you, John."

John smiled, abeit weakly, and nodded.

"Lorraine, Polly, Carol, Whittle, Ellen, Chrissy...those are the people whose love mattered to me, and those are the ones I got love from and got to give love back to," Boris said, his voice hoarse, his hands shaking on his knees, "but you, especially. I sat in that nursing home and I was angry, I wanted to be better, I wanted to be remembered as more than a pile of mistakes and regrets and failed expectations. I just didn't have the drive. And then you walked in. You walked in to give the last rites to someone else, and we spoke, and I knew then that I didn't want to get better for me, but for the people around me, who deserved the best me they could have. Sure, getting better for myself was a nice bonus, but it wasn't my primary motive. Call me a people pleaser, I suppose."

John laughed.

"You're certainly on the cusp," John said.

"But that's what I wanted. More from life. I wasn't content to sit around and wait for it to end. I wanted to do something before that, because I'd barely done anything with it before then," Boris said, "so no, God's love isn't divine to me. It's just a nice bonus. Yours is what mattered."

Boris slid his shaking, frail hand across the wooden pew seat and held onto John's, making him tear up. John looked up at Boris, and their eyes met.

"Out of everyone...all of them, even my own daughter, who I wanted for so long to forgive me, acknowledge me, accept me...you were the one that mattered most. To me, when the accident happened, I figured that was it. I was a bad father. I'd crippled my own daughter and for what? A sport she didn't even want to play? When facing God on judgement day, I figured he'd take one look at me and think what a waste of effort I was to create in his image. But then you, a man of the clothe, a middleman for the lord, tells me I can be better, tells me that I can improve and that my past doesn't define me nor dictate what's left of my future...a man closer to God than any other...tells me he loves me."

John reached forward with his other hand, placing it on Boris's face. Boris shut his eyes, his face wet with tears.

"How could I not love myself if you could? God would forgive me. The accident wasn't intentional. God would forgive me, because you saw I was deserving of forgiveness," Boris said, starting to cough, "and...and how could that not inspire me to be the best?"

"I don't know what to say, Boris," John said softly, "other than, I'm touched, moreso than I've ever been. Knowing you has been the greatest gift I've been given. In a way, it almost feels as though I lost my brother, and lost Steven, so that I would be capable of helping you when we finally met."

"Don't conflate the reasons," Boris said, "everything is just a coincidence, and it is what it is."

Boris looked back towards the front of the church, John still holding his hand.

"Sister Jenn calls it The Inevitable Whatever," Boris said, "because she says she has no right to claim what comes next, so why give it a name and a face, an idea. I like that. Being on the verge of The Inevitable Whatever...however...not so much. Scares me. But, like Leanne, I'm excited to see what comes next. I didn't get it at the time, but I think I do now."

John nodded, exhaled and squeezed Boris's hand gently.

"Boris," John said, "you don't have to-"

"I love you," Boris said, surprising him before adding, "I was so scared to say that. But I do. I think I love you, John, more than I've ever loved another person, romantically. Lorraine will always have a soft spot in my heart, having given me Ellen, but...but what you and I had, even if it wasn't official, was so much more real, and it was nice. Nice to get that, before it ended. To at least get to experience it once. The thing I wanted more than anything out of life. And you gave that to me."

John was now full on crying, wiping his eyes on his shoulder, breathing fast.

"I...I love you too," John replied, his voice shaking, "and you're welcome, you gave just as much to me as I could've given to you if not more. I will never have something like this with another man."

"Sure you will," Boris said, smiling, patting John on the hand, "it just won't be like what we had. But don't close yourself off to the idea. Live, John. Live because I couldn't. Don't be me. Don't be afraid. Love someone else, love everyone else, hell, it's your job, you're a priest, remember?"

John laughed, nodding some more. Together they turned and looked at the main window in the front of the church, admiring its beauty. Boris's eyes weakened, fuzzy, and his breathing got heavier. He groaned as he shifted in his seat.

"You know what I could use," Boris said, "I could use a coffee."

"At this hour? You're a maniac," John said, laughing.

"There's a place just down the street, maybe around the block, that's open all night, makes great coffee," Boris said, "would you mind? I'll get breakfast tomorrow."

John smiled, and shook his head.

"I wouldn't mind at all," John whispered, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek before standing up and exiting the church. Boris sat there, listening to the silence. He thought about what John had said, about how he'd never have this again with someone, and he just hoped to God that John would take his advice to heart. To not be afraid to love some more. Because if anyone he'd ever met in his life was deserving of love, it was John Potter Krickett. Boris shut his eyes and leaned his head back, just resting. He could hear some cars passing by outside. A radio in the distance.

"Having a nice night?" a voice asked, and Boris roused from his quick rest, glancing to his opposite side, only to find a woman there. A young woman in her mid thirties with medium length hair in a braid over her shoulder, a blouse with a collar and cuffs, and a pencil skirt. Polly. Boris sighed.

"Didn't know you were allowed in a church, figured you'd burst into flames on sight," Boris said, making her chuckle.

"Always with the quip," Polly said, "it's a beautiful place."

"It is," Boris said, "it's a miracle, frankly. This church is a miracle, and I'm proud to have been a part of that."

"Now that's a legacy worth leaving," Polly said, grinning.

The radio outside got louder, as the song "Let's Get Away From It All" drifted into the church easily, clear and crisp as day. Polly stood up and held one hand out to Boris, as he looked up at her, cautiously confused.

"Dance with me," she said, and Boris smirked, nodded, and stood up. He took Polly by the hand and, together, started dancing. It'd been years since he'd danced, but he still remembered how. One hand in hers, the other on her hip, Boris couldn't help but laugh at the whole situation.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Polly asked, "the people who mean the most to you?"

"It is," Boris said, nodding in agreement, "you just...you never expect it. You think it's gonna be your family or your childhood friends but often...often it's the people you meet along the way, sometimes not until much later, who turn out to be the most important. The ones you have unspoken bonds with."

"Exactly!" Polly said, grinning, "and isn't that nice? To recognize you're not alone, even at an age like that? It sure made me feel better. And that's a beautiful thing, because I think a lot of people, maybe even most people - though many of them are far to prideful to ever admit it - don't acknowledge that they don't become who they actually are until well towards the end. That's when you've known yourself the longest. That's when you know who you are. And that's when others can know too. It's like a gravitational thing, we all become pulled towards one another. I think that's what's beautiful about nursing homes."

"There's something beautiful about nursing homes? God, you really can see the upside to anything," Boris said, making her snort laugh.

"I just mean, we fill these places with people we think are too far gone, but they aren't. They're just starting," Polly said, "look at how much more you lived. Look at who you became. I'm proud to have known you."

Boris nodded, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. They turned and continued dancing as the song came to a close and the silence once again enveloped the church. Boris, his chin resting on her shoulder as the dance ended, then saw it. Himself. Sitting on the pew, looking the way he had for years. Boris stepped back from Polly, and quickly rushed to a nearby mirror, looking at himself. Nice button down, long sleeved shirt, tucked into slacks, suspenders. Hair, full and well groomed. Stubble. He turned and looked back at Polly, who was gently scuffing the floor with her shoe like a nervous teenager.

"I didn't want you to be scared," Polly said, and Boris stammered, walking back to the pew. He seated himself on one side of his body, Polly on the other; Polly cocked her head to both sides before saying, "for what it's worth, for someone very sick at the end...you don't look too bad, champ."

"...why are you here, Polly?" Boris asked, his voice stammering, shaking.

"Why are you here, Boris?" Polly asked, leaning back and crossing her legs.

"...that wasn't scary at all," Boris mumbled and Polly laughed.

"Well, to be fair, this could all be nothing. The subconscious does strange things when the brain is dying. But at least you're somewhere beautiful, with people who cared about you," Polly said.

Boris leaned forward again, looking at his body.

"They have a term for it, you know," Polly said, "for these years, the ones at the end, they call them your golden years, not sure why, guess it sounded poetic in 1945, but...there's something nice about it too. Golden Years. You lived through the bronze, that was where you were young and shitty, and you survived through the silver, where you were getting better, growing but still kind of awful, and now here you are, top of the podium, with the gold. You did it, kid. You won. You survived life. Thing is, nobody gives you a medal. And why should they? We all end here, same as everyone else, no matter how well we did. The only ones who really acknowledge whether we became golden were ourselves and maybe the ones closest to us."

Boris leaned back in his seat and put his hands on his knees, exhaling slowly.

"I think you did it, though, and did it damn well might I add," Polly said, "sorry I didn't make it there. I had to tap out in second place. Always the first loser of the race."

Boris chuckled, nodding, Polly giggling.

"You weren't a loser, Polly. A loser doesn't play by their own rules. So what's it like?" Boris asked, "is it nice?"

"Nicer than this? Anything has to be," Polly said.

"I was supposed to have breakfast tomorrow," Boris said.

"Oh, come off it, we both know you weren't going to manage that," Polly replied.

A moment passed, and Polly stood up, straightened her skirt, and held out her hand again.

"Shall we?" she asked, and Boris waited, then stood up and took her hand. Together they walked around the aisle, and headed past the pews, towards the church doors. The doors opened and out they stepped, into the great Inevitable Whatever. A few more minutes passed, and the doors re-opened, John re-entering, two coffee cups in one hand each. He quickly approached the pew and sat down, placing Boris's by him as he put his own between his legs.

"Their coffee better be as good as you claim," John said, "because it cost too much and it took too long and they spelt my name Johm. That's not even a name, Boris. It's one thing when they misspell it in a way that makes sense, like Sally with an IE, but Johm? Frankly I think they're just bitter about their job. But, if this is what the lord wants, from now on I'll be known as Johm, so be it."

John laughed at his own joke, and then stopped laughing. He reached out, putting his hand on Boris's shoulder, shaking gently.

"Boris? You takin' a power nap in church? It's the house of God, not the bedroom of God," John said, chuckling nervously, before shaking him again, "Boris?"

John had seen death enough to know what was sitting next to him. So John Potter Krickett sat on his pew and he sipped his coffee, and he rested his head on the old mans shoulder. He'd savor this moment for as long as he could. You only get so many moments in life, after all. John lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.

"Alright," John said, "you were right. Coffee's pretty good."

Rachel had woken up, her eyes blurry, her mouth dry. She couldn't recall even falling asleep, but she must've, and she must've fallen asleep on the couch. She rolled over and sat up, stretching. Rachel stood up and suddenly heard something, a soft kind of walking sound, heavy and slow. Her eyes scanned the room. Whatever it was she couldn't see it. Then she heard the breathing. Low. Breathy. She slowly turned her head to face the kitchen and screamed. There, peeking around from the corner, with their elongated neck and their transparent skin - veins and blood all visible - was the See Through Horse. Rachel screamed at the top of her lungs, and then woke up.

This time she was lying in bed, and Sun Rai was next to her, trying to calm her down. Rachel immediately pushed herself into Sun's chest, no explanation given, and started sobbing. The medication was working, but it wouldn't last forever, and sometimes she still had the dreams. She knew she'd have to get a legal prescription soon enough, but for right now, she'd enjoy feeling safe at her most vulnerable. She'd worry about everything else tomorrow. And that's exactly what she did. Come the following morning, Rachel called in sick to work and headed over to Wyatt's. Standing on the front porch, waiting for the door to be answered, she chewed her lip nervously. When the door finally swung open, Scarlett stood there.

"Oh," Rachel said, "hi!"

"Hey! What are you doing here?" Scarlett asked.

"Well, actually I..." Rachel thought, and then remembered something, "...could we go see Mona's horse?"

                                                                                                         ***

Wyatt was sitting at his desk, shuffling papers around, when the door opened. He looked up and saw Celia stroll in. Wyatt smiled, always happy to see her, but she didn't look too thrilled. Celia took a seat, putting her purse on the arm of the chair, and waited as Wyatt finished compiling some things into a manilla folder.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked.

"You left a message on my answering machine," Celia said, "about Calvin."

"...right," Wyatt said, sighing, leaning back in his chair and adding, "uh, yeah. Yeah. He's...he's gone off the deep end. Not that he wasn't close to the edge of it to begin with, but he's really gone off now. Um. Grudin's wife has hired a private investigator to find out what happened to her husband. Calvin currently has him tied up in his shed. I didn't wanna pull you into this, but you...you're like...the only morally conscious one of us and I need some kind of guidance here."

"Well jeez, you just come out swingin' both barrels, don'tcha?" Celia replied, making Wyatt chuckle.

"It's bad, Celia. He's planning on killing her. And their daughter. A little girl. A mentally challenged little girl. An innocent fucking kid. As the father of a child who has developmental issues, I...I'd feel like a hypocrite if I was okay with this happening. Regardless of that, I'd feel like a monster if he killed a kid. I feel like he's sunk to their level and there's no going back. We've been running in circles. We do one thing, he does another. We fix it, he does something worse. We get away with that, he plans something else. He needs to be stopped."

Celia crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt out as she looked at Wyatt, her eyes serious.

"So what do you propose?" she asked.

Wyatt stood up and started pacing behind his desk, scratching the back of his head. He groaned and leaned against a wall, his forehead on the plaster.

"...I think you know what we have to do," he said quietly, "I just...I can't do it. I can't do what he does. I don't have it in me. I think something broke inside Calvin when he lost his family, and he's...he's now capable of monstrous things, but I'm not. I can't sink to that level. But if I don't do something, he'll do something even worse than anything he's done before. At what point does it become socially acceptable to stop someone no matter what the cost?"

"Some folks would say never," Celia replied, "but me, personally? As a mother of a child? Yeah, he needs to be stopped. So let's come up with something before he makes a move."

Wyatt knew he could count on Celia for her honesty and wit, that she was the only one truly law abiding person among them, and if even she was on board with getting rid of Calvin, then there was no denying the truth. They had to get rid of Calvin. One way...or another.

                                                                                                           ***

"I'm just surprised is all, I don't peg you for the horse riding type," Scarlett said as they approached the stable.

"I used to be," Rachel said, "I used to be super into horseback riding. My friend Kelly and I really bonded over the interest and, god, my room was full of horse stuff. Horse stuff and art supplies."

"What stopped you?" Scarlett asked as they approached Sugarcube's stall, his face hanging out over the wood. Rachel looked at him, and sighed.

"There was an incident," Rachel said, "I...I was with this girl when she got kicked in the head. And all because she was doing something for me, so, like, it's my fault, really. I've never liked horses much after that. She suffered serious brain damage, had to drop out of school, start her whole life over like she was a child. I just...kinda vowed to stay away from horses after that. The weird thing is...I was nearly sexually assaulted by my manager when I was in college doing art, and yet, even with that, I didn't run away from art. Doesn't make sense why I'd run from one but not another."

"Because you recognized his actions weren't a direct result of you," Scarlett said, catching Rachel off guard; she turned and looked at Scarlett, who leaned against the stall and shrugged, folding her arms, continuing, "like...you weren't responsible for his reprehensible behavior towards you. Therefore, art wasn't tainted. But you felt personally responsible for what happened to this girl, and therefore horses were tainted. It all comes down to a matter of perspective, something you should be very familiar with considering you're in the art world."

Rachel chuckled  a little and looked back at Sugarcube. He whinnied and shook his head, like he was waiting for something to happen.

"But I can promise you that you're not responsible," Scarlett said, "People make decisions and we live with the ramifications. We react accordingly. Doesn't make us responsible. Especially for such things that were truly accidents or out of our hands. Now, say, you were drinking and driving and you killed someone, that you're responsible for. You chose to do something that directly endangered another person, willingly. But these things? No. They aren't your fault."

Rachel nodded, listening, her thoughts turning to Calvin. He was the one making the decision to kill Grudin's wife and daughter. She wasn't responsible for what might happen to him as a result. She was, if anything, doing the right thing by telling Wyatt. Rachel sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sweatshirt sleeve.

"After it happened," Rachel said, "I started having these dreams, about this...this see through horse with an elongated neck. I never understood why, and it terrified the shit out of me. I'd wake up having these screaming fits, and then...then it progressed to hallucinations. I was put on medication for a while in school until it stopped being so frequent or stopped altogether. I got the horse part, that made sense, but...a friend once asked me why it was transparent and I couldn't answer. Seemed random."

"It's not," Scarlett said, "No, I...I used to do this thing with my cousin where we'd interpret one anothers dreams and so we got all these dream meaning books out of the library and stuff cause, ya know, teenage girl shit, and actually something that’s transparent or see-through can represent something that's seeming to lack substance, meaning, or importance. So really, what your subsconcious is telling you is that this moment that you deem so pivotal to your life and person, this moment that you hold yourself responsible for? It really is nothing more than a small blip on the radar that is your existence. It doesn't mean anything. It has no power, no importance. You're the one who assigned it that. But in reality, it was just a shitty thing that happened."

Rachel slowly turned and looked at Scarlett. Nobody, not even therapists she'd seen, had ever once given her a remotly plausible explanation for the horse. And yet here was Scarlett, a random stay at home mom from a wealthy neighborhood, who managed to give her an actual answer. Rachel turned back to facing Sugarcube and slowly reached out. Her palm inches from its face, she looked back at Scarlett who smiled and nodded. Rachel put her palm on the horses nose and smiled, tears running down her face.

The See Through Horse didn't mean a goddamned thing. But real horses?

Real horses meant the world to her. And she wasn't responsible for what happened, to that girl...or to Calvin.

                                                                                                          ***

"There's no good outcome to this, is there?" Wyatt asked, slumped in his desk chair as Celia, her legs up on the desk, shook her head.

"Not really, no," she said, "but that's what you work with when you're involved in this level of crime."

"My life was easy," Wyatt said, "before the reunion. Before Calvin. It wasn't perfect, but hell, it was as close to perfect as one could hope to achieve these days."

"What would've made it perfect?" Celia asked.

"Rocket car, obviously, duh," Wyatt replied, making her laugh as he continued, "all I'm saying is that I had the closest thing anyone can have to perfection, and now...now my life is an out and out mess, and for what? Calvin is a victim, sure, nobody would deny that, but at the same time he's creating victims and acting as if its morally justified."

"The thing you need to remember, man, is that we've done everything short of going to the police and putting ourselves in the line of sight to keep Calvin in check. He continues to push forward, proving that he's not manageable, and if that's the case, if he's threatening children now, then something more drastic does need to be done. We've exhausted all our other options."

Wyatt nodded, knowing full well Celia was right, and hating to admit it. He'd tried reasoning with Calvin. He'd tried getting others like Rachel to talk him down. He'd tried threatening him. He'd done everything he could, and Calvin still wouldn't see reason. He was a man blinded by rage disguised as justice. Wyatt leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, groaning.

"Wyatt," Celia said, "it's awful, but you and me, we have kids, we know what he's debating doing isn't okay."

"I know."

"Then you also know that what has to be done HAS to be done," Celia said, "I'm not really a pro-murder kinda lady, but if someone has reached a point where they're willing to harm a child to teach an adult a lesson, then they've lost all credibility in my mind. And, to be perfectly honest...Robert Grudin didn't deserve to die. He shouldn't have been allowed to stay in politics, continue running for office, and yes he was slimy about not openly apologizing for his actions that took Calvin's family away from him, but...I don't think that warrants him being blown up. I think his wife has every right to be mad and want vengeance."

"You're not wrong," Wyatt said quietly, "I just...I don't care about what happens to me, I just don't want you guys to go down too."

Celia smiled. Wyatt really was a selfless individual, and she admired that about him. His worries weren't about himself, his worries were for the friends around him that could be seen as co-conspirators. He didn't want that for them, he knew they deserved better.

"Promise me something," Wyatt said, leaning forward in his chair, "if, when this all ends, if I go to jail, just...make sure my daughter knows the truth."

"I'll let her know what a brave man her father was," Celia said, patting Wyatt's hands and smiling.

And it was a promise she would keep.

                                                                                                       ***

"Thanks for taking me," Rachel said.

After the ranch, she and Scarlett went to lunch downtown, and now, sitting in a booth, each finishing their respective meals, Rachel felt like she owed this woman the world for opening her eyes.

"Eh, don't mention it, ain't no thing," Scarlett said.

"No, really, I...my parents made me believe that everything was my fault, that I was to blame," Rachel said, "and that isn't a fair way for a child to grow up, let alone an adult to continue living. That isn't to say some stuff isn't, but the majority of things that happened to me weren't my fault, and it's time I stopped believing that they were. I've been thinking about coming out to them lately."

"Yeah?" Scarlett asked, leaning back in the booth and using a toothpick on her teeth.

"It's scary, but...but I want to try and have an open and honest relationship with them, and if they can't accept me for that, then I'll know it's a fruitless endeavor," Rachel said, shrugging, crossing her arms, "like...my parents already blamed me for my near assault, made me feel responsible for the horse incident, and so I don't have a lot of faith that they'll accept me for my sexuality, but hey, at least I can say I'm the one who tried."

"That's the spirit," Scarlett said, smiling, "and hey, for what it's worth, you deserve to be respected and accepted. If my daughter were to turn out to be any flavor of queer, I'd still love her just the same, so remember that no matter what happens with your folks, you'll always have your friends. I'll always be here for you."

Rachel smiled weakly and thought about her parents. And then about Kelly's parents. And then about Sun Rai. Scarlett was right. She already had such a strong support system, so it didn't really matter whether her parents loved her or not in relation to who she was, but...it'd be nice, she wouldn't deny it. When Rachel got home that evening, she found Sun Rai already there, making dinner, and she hugged her from behind in the kitchen, just holding her and swaying gently. Everything Rachel always wanted was right here, parents be damned. And when Scarlett got home, she found Wyatt there, with take out and a bouquet of flowers. He apologized for their recent fights, and Scarlett felt lucky to have such a wonderful husband.

But Calvin...Calvin waited untl his parents were asleep, and then he carried a plate of food from dinner out to the shed for Ricky. As he unshackled one of the mans hands so he could eat, Calvin sat in front of him and watched.

"...you've met them, right? If you work for them, you've obviously met them," Calvin said.

"Yeah," Ricky said, eating like he was starving, "yeah, I've met her, and her kid."

"Tell me one thing," Calvin said, "if you were me, and he took your wife and daughter away...would you have done the same thing?"

"I don't think how you feel is monstrous, I think that's perfectly normal," Ricky said, chewing, "but acting on it? That's an entirely different situation. Everyone WANTS revenge, but that doesn't mean it's justifiable. He's dead, man, what good could come from killing his wife and daughter? He won't be alive to even feel the loss."

"Because Robert Grudin doesn't deserve to have any part of him exist in this world when my family doesn't," Calvin said sternly, "he needs to be completelt wiped from this earth, from this life, his legacy left to the ashes of time. That's why. Tomorrow, I'm gonna come back in here and you're gonna give me her address, her schedule, the layout of her house, anything that could help me do this easily."

Ricky stared as he finished eating and Calvin took the plate from him. The two men locked eyes and Ricky slowly shook his head.

"Don't do this, man," he said softly.

"...I don't have a choice anymore," Calvin replied, before shackling Ricky's hands back up and exiting, the sound of the lock sliding into place making Ricky shiver. Ricky looked around the dimly lit shed and exhaled. Calvin had lost his family, and Ricky felt for him, but he'd also done something worse. Robert Grudin might've killed Calvin's family, and then not taken responsibility for it, but he didn't do it purposefully. Calvin had killed Grudin in cold blood, and was now seeking to further harm his remaining family, who only wanted justice for the murder he'd committed. Ricky was starting to understand just how fucked a predicament he was actually in.

Some nights he really wish he had stayed the course in college and become a teacher. Teachers rarely got tied to chairs and threatened with death.

"Well, look at you," John said as he saw Boris exit the hallway in a tuxedo; John continued, "who knew you clean up so well?"

"Nobody ever bothered to ask," Boris said, shrugging, "where's the girls?"

"They left already," John said, "and I've gotta get there soon if I'm officiate this thing properly. It'll be a nice change of pace, doing a wedding and not a funeral. Too many funerals. I don't think people are meant to attend as many funerals as priests have to."

Boris stood still as John approached him and reached out, adjusting his tie.

"I never could do that right," Boris said.

"Well, good thing you have me then, isn't it?" John replied, patting him on the face. Together, the men exited the apartment and headed down the hall towards the parking lot. Once in the complex's parking lot, they stood and looked at one another before John asked, "Separate cars?"

"Yeah, but I'll need a ride home," Boris said.

"I can manage that," John said.

Boris got into Polly's gremlin, while John got into his car, and they both pulled out of their respective spaces, heading towards the outdoor venue Ellen was having her wedding. All things considered, Boris couldn't honestly believe he was going to get to see his daughter get married. He was so grateful that she had managed to move the wedding up just for his sake, and he wanted to thank her repeatedly for this chance to witness the happiest day of her life. Boris eventually pulled up to the outdoor venue - a small plot of pretty land near a beautiful house that was rented out just for the occasion, mostly for the after party - and parked. As he exited the car, he heard someone talk from behind him.

"Well look at you," Lorraine said, and Boris turned to see her, smiling.

"Look at me," he said, approaching her. She was wearing a black dress and long white gloves, her hair done up in a bun, as she leaned against her car and smoked. Boris leaned against her and she handed him her cigarette, which he took. Cancer was no longer a threat he figured, considering he'd be gone long before it could show its face.

"I don't think I've seen you in a tuxedo since...since Polly's funeral," Lorraine said, "and before that, our wedding."

"I never had much of a reason to wear one," Boris replied, shrugging as he handed her her cigarette back.

"You gonna wear one to your funeral?" Lorraine asked, and Boris smirked.

"Nah, figured I'd just turn up in a bathrobe and slippers, I mean, let's face it, who would judge me at that point?" Boris asked. Lorraine laughed, then linked arms with him and, together, they headed towards the house on the little hill. As they passed by numerous folks, mostly people they didn't know - friends of Ellen or Ellen's fiance - Boris couldn't help but feel a little guilty for having people he did know here. Ellen had told him to invite anyone he wanted, hence why Whittle and Jenn were coming, but the only other people Boris had invited were Melody and Carol, and he hadn't seen either one yet.

"You remember all the planning that went into our wedding?" Lorraine asked, "We spent months on the most minor decisions; tableclothe colors, what kind of fucking silverware to use. And for what? For one single day? In all honesty, by the time you're our age, you barely remember the day, so was it really worth it?"

"Yes," Boris said, surprising her, "yes, it was. It was important for that moment, because in that moment, all that matters is that moment. I regret a lot in my life, but I don't regret marrying you, even if I wasn't exactly the best husband, and even if I denied myself who I was."

Lorraine stopped and looked at Boris as he held her hands, massaging the tops of them gently with his thumbs.

"You had a big hand in making me who I am," Boris said quietly, "and I'm grateful for that. I just wish I could've done better for you."

"You did the best you could, Boris," Lorraine said, kissing his cheek, "and that's more than most men ever did."

Lorraine then excused herself to go see Ellen, to admire her wedding dress, while Boris stood there and watched. He took a long, deep breath of the fresh air and he smiled. What a beautiful day for a wedding. He felt weak, tired, but he was happy he was here. Suddenly he felt the presence of someone else and looked to his side to see Carol there, in a beautiful light blue shoulderless dress.

"Wow," Boris said, "don't we look fancy?"

But Carol didn't respond. Boris cocked his head and looked at her a little more closely. She seemed to just be staring absentmindedly into the view ahead. After a long moment, Carol finally sighed and looked towards Boris.

"Any conversation I have with you could be the last," Carol finally said, "and that...that finality, it didn't used to bother me. As I got older, I recognized that, at any given moment - especially in the home - someone I considered a friend could go, and that would be that. But you're not just a friend, Boris, you're like...like family. Seeing these people gather here to celebrate a new life, a marriage, a journey...just makes me wistful, I suppose."

Boris nodded and put his arm through Carol's, walking further into the area with her.

"Well," Boris said, "if this is the last conversation we ever have, then I just hope it doesn't end with you telling me you hate me."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll get that in well before the end," Carol said, smirking, "but doesn't that scare you? To know that today could be it? Or tomorrow?"

"Of course it does," Boris replied, "but I can't let it consume me. The minute it consumes me is the minute it wins, and you can't let death win. He already wins in the long run, don't give him an extra inch."

Carol nodded, laying her head on his shoulder as they walked past a crowd and stopped near a snack table. Boris could see John speaking with Ellen and her fiance, and he smiled to himself. Carol pulled away from Boris and started investigating the snack table.

"Finger sandwiches," she said, "...fuck. How does one have a final conversation?"

"We don't need to. What do you need to prepare for closure for? Just assume there'll be another," Boris said.

Boris watched as Ellen walked away, into the house, and he excused himself, saying he'd be back shortly, and began to follow Ellen into the house. Once inside, he slipped past some people talking, eating, enjoying themselves, his eyes scanning the space for his daughter. Boris headed down the hallway and then backed up, stopping at a bathroom door. He could hear rough breathing inside. Boris opened the door, slid inside and shut it behind him, only to find Ellen sitting on the side of the bathtub, panicking.

"What's all this about?" Boris asked.

"What if I do it wrong?" Ellen asked, looking up at her father, "you did it wrong, I'm your offspring, what if I'm just as bad?"

Boris chuckled, then painfully seated himself on the bathtub side alongside her.

"You can't do worse than me, that's a guarantee," Boris said, "but more important than that...you won't. The difference is generational. When your mother and I got married, we both hid a lot of things about ourselves, things we'd much rather have followed, because society expected us to be coupled, to have a child, to be a family. That's not something you have to worry about. It's a new era. New rules. Look at Whittle. She was living that life. She had a longtime boyfriend, a whole career, and now look at her. Night and day. Happier than ever before. Because she took the risk, knew the reward was worth the effort, and found that, in the end, nobody really cared as long as she was happy."

Ellen looked at her father and smiled, resting her head against his arm.

"I'm just scared," she said, "I don't wanna mess up."

"You won't," Boris said, kissing the side of her head, "I promise."

                                                                                                        ***

"Weddings make me all weepy," Jenn said as she and Whittle sat at a nearby outside picnic table, drinking, watching everyone; she took another bite off her skewer and added, "I know it's so cliche, call me a stereotype and a half, but I just think it's beautiful."

"I wouldn't call you a stereotype, not for that anyway," Whittle replied, winking at her, making her giggle. Whittle exhaled, "honestly...they make me a little nervous, if only because I came so close to being married before. To doing the heteronormative thing and settling for less than mediocre. To think...I wouldn't have met you had I done that. Or maybe I would've, and we would've have an affair."

"That's way hotter," Jenn said, making Whittle laugh.

Whittle, in a sense, saw a lot of herself in Boris's daughter, and realized now why she and Boris had gotten along so well in the end, because in a way...she was a kind of surrogate, just as Chrissy had been. Different daughters of differing ages, all meant to let him be the father he'd failed to be before. Whittle didn't mind that, however, having had a strained relationship with her own parents, she was more than happy to step into those shoes. And suddenly...tears were on her face. Jenn reached across the table and held her hand.

"What is it?" Jenn asked.

"He's going to die," Whittle whispered, "he's going to die and we're fucking celebrating."

"A part of him won't," Jenn said, "she'll keep going, she'll have a whole life. In a way, he's vicariously living through her. She's getting to do the thing he always wanted to, and that's beautiful."

Whittle hadn't considered it from that angle before. Jenn had a point. Whittle lifted her glass to her lips, then looked around.

"Where's John?" she asked.

                                                                                                          ***

"Open your palm," Boris said, and Ellen did just that; Boris fished into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box, opening the lid and revealing a ring. Ellen gasped, her eyes widening.

"That is beautiful," she said softly.

"It is," Boris said, "it belonged to my best friend. She gave it to me right before she died, said she wanted me to pawn it, but I never could. I figured I would keep it for myself, eventually be buried with it. But...once you told me you were getting married, I decided the next best thing would be to give it to you. It won't replace the ring you have, of course, but...it'd mean a lot to me if you'd take it. Polly, she...she had the guts to do what you're doing, to be herself, and in our generation that was gutsy, but she didn't get the happy ending she deserved. I want her to, and this way she will."

Ellen held out her hand, spreading her fingers so Boris could slide it onto one of her fingers. He then held her hand, very gently, and smiled at the ring.

"She told me she used to think the best thing in life was sharing it with other people, but later on she thought the best thing in life is sharing it with the right people. Not just anyone, but someone in particular. Someone who really understands you and gets what you're all about. Not just someone who happens to be in the same vicinity as you. That's why so many marriages of my generation failed, because people married for the sake of not being lonely. After all, what good even is a life if you didn't actually live it?" Boris said, and Ellen nodded, crying, leaning in and hugging her father, Boris rubbing her back.

After a few moments, Ellen said she had to fix her makeup, and Boris stood up, exiting the bathroom. Once he closed the bathroom door behind him, finding himself back in the hallway, he bumped into someone and immediately recognized it was John.

"Oh, didn't know you were in the house," John said, "we're about ready to get started. Is she ready?"

"She will be," Boris said, "walk with me."

John and Boris turned and, together, side by side, walked throughout the house and back out onto the patio, overlooking the party. From this vantage point, Boris could see the altar and he felt his eyes water.

"I wish I could find my prayer beads," John said, shaking his head, "it's been months at this point, almost a year it seems like. Ridiculous. I always hold them when I officiate stuff, and...and to not have them makes me feel so...naked."

"Well just imagine everyone else is naked," Boris said, "you'll be fine."

John chuckled and patted Boris on the back.

"A life begins," Boris said, "and another ends. That's the cycle, right?"

"That's the cycle," John said, "I have to get down there."

Boris nodded, as John walked off. Boris stayed there for a bit, then noticed Melody, in the parking lot, sitting on the curb, just watching from afar. Boris headed back down the stairs, back out of the house and across the yard. As he approached, she waved politely at him, and he groaned as he sat down beside her.

"You don't like weddings?" he asked.

"Eh," Melody said, "I...I was married."

"Really? Now that's not information I was privy to," Boris said.

"Well, it's not really something I like to discuss," Melody said, shrugging.

"Listen," Boris said, digging into his other coat pocket, "your car is totaled. Once you feel ready to drive again, you're gonna need a new set of wheels. I want you to have this."

Boris pushed a pair of car keys, Polly's Gremlins car keys, into Melody's hand. She looked down at them, confused, before looking back up at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Go places with it, take it everywhere," Boris said, "the woman who owned it, she didn't get to do a whole lot. I think she'd be happy to know her car is out there, having adventures. And, like you, she refused to take any bullshit, so I think it just makes sense you have it. I'm not gonna need a car where I'm goin'."

Melody nodded slowly, and then hugged him. Boris hugged her back, and patted her on the shoulder. After this, Boris got back up and headed back to the main lawn where the ceremony was already underway. Ellen and Miranda at the forefront, John between them, speaking. Boris shuffled quietly through the crowd until he found a seat right beside Carol, and plopped himself down. Carol leaned into him, her voice low.

"You do what you had to do?" Carol asked.

"Yep," Boris said.

"Do you remember when Mr. Henderson died?" Carol asked, and Boris nodded; she cleared her throat and continued, "you immediately wanted to move into his room, the room of a dead man! His body had been cold less than 8 hours and you wanted to live in his room. I thought you were crazy. But...that's the thing, Boris, you've never run from death. You've embraced it from the start. That's admirable. I see it now. I mean, you weren't rushing out, hoping it'd take you next or anything, but you also didn't shy away from it. When Polly bit it, that shook you, but you still soldiered on, for her. That's what I'm gonna do. Soldier on. For you."

Boris turned and looked at her, and Carol smiled.

"How's that for a final conversation?" she asked, and he smiled, nodding.

"You did good," he said.

                                                                                                              ***

John did, as he said he would, give Boris a ride home.

Driving through the dark, the only light the ones on the street and the traffic lamps, Boris could feel himself shaking. His leg, specifically. He felt weak. They came to a red light and stopped, waiting for the traffic to continue. Boris rolled his head and looked towards John.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," John said, "Ellen looked so happy. Just...joyous."

"I'd hope so, given the circumstances," Boris replied, his voice weak and soft.

The light changed and John continued driving.

"John," Boris said, "...don't go home. I need to go somewhere first."

John looked at Boris.

"I need to go to chuch," Boris said.

"I love the future," Wyatt said, "ordering new limbs from a catalogue like you're getting furniture."

"It is kind of cool," Kelly agreed.

Kelly and Wyatt were in Kelly's bedroom, looking through the various catalogues the doctor had given her to choose a prosthetic limb from. Wyatt knew he should be doing anything else, be at work or maybe go home, but he figured the store would be fine without him for one afternoon and today Scarlett was doing her painting with Mona, so. Wyatt turned a page, then plunged his hand into the nearby bowl full of chips and shoveled them into his mouth. Kelly sipped from her soda can, then burped loudly.

"Maybe just get something with, like, a robotic hook at the end, go for the whole cyborg look," Wyatt said.

"It would be pretty cool to be able to scare children," Kelly said, making Wyatt laugh.

Kelly had specifically called Wyatt to ask him to come over and help her choose something, and she was more than thrilled he was here. There was something just so comforting about his presence and she found herself not feeling depressed about her current medical situation just because he was around. Besides, they shared a similar sense of humor, so her jokes always landed, and she liked that he laughed at them. Wyatt turned his catalogue towards her and tapped one. Kelly leaned forward and looked.

"How about that one?" he asked.

"That one's pretty slick," Kelly said, "am I gonna have to wear a shoe with this thing? Is that even possible?"

"That's...actually an excellent question," Wyatt said, "I hadn't considered that."

Truth be told, not that he knew it, but Wyatt had gotten lucky to be doing this because, at the moment, Rachel was dealing with something far more intense.

                                                                                                          ***

"Why is she here?" Rachel asked as she entered Calvin's kitchen. His parents were both gone for the afternoon, running various errands. Calvin turned from the sink, filling up his water pitcher and looked at Rachel, furrowing his brow in confusion before realizing what she was referencing.

"Oh, Angie? She insists on keeping watch on him, and why should I stop her? Keeps me from having to do it," Calvin said.

Rachel sat down at the kitchen table while Calvin got himself a beer from the fridge, then got Rachel one as well. He handed her her beer, then seated himself as well, unscrewing the top of his beer with his bare hands and taking a long drink. Rachel sipped hers conservatively. Best not to get buzzed in a situation such as this, she figured.

"I walked into the shed, wholly expecting you to be in there, only to come face to face with Wyatt's biggest fan," Rachel said, "did she just show up on her own?"

"Yeah, which is a little unnerving, actually," Calvin said, "kind of wish Wyatt hadn't shown her where I live."

"So she just rolls on up and decides to keep watch?" Rachel asked, and Calvin nodded; Rachel shivered, "creepy."

Calvin snickered and went to the fridge to get some dip before retrieving a bag of chips. He set both on the table and Rachel immediately dug in, Calvin watching with curiosity. Rachel just shrugged.

"I didn't have lunch," she said, "so what's the plan anyway?"

"...actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Calvin said, "...he told me who he's working for."

This information caught Rachels attention. So Calvin explained. He explained how he'd threatened Ricky with the gun, discussed why he'd taken Grudin out to begin with, and everything in between. Then he explained what Ricky told him. About Grudin's wife. And his decision on how  to handle it. How, if Grudin took his wife and daughter from him, then Calvin saw no reason to not do the same. And as she listened, absentmindedly eating chips and dip and occasionally sipping on her beer, the only thing Rachel could think was how right Wyatt had actually been. How dangerous Calvin actually was.

And how he had to be stopped.

                                                                                                   ***

"There was this girl in college," Kelly said, "she had a prosthetic limb as a result of a rollercoaster accident."

"Awesome," Wyatt said, making Kelly chuckle.

"Anyway," she continued, "she ran track, she was like the track star actually, and people were all supportive of her and impressed by her cause, like, here was someone who depended on their limbs moreso than someone usually would, specifically for a career, and she'd overcome the odds of losing one to still be the best track star at the school. When the doctor first told me that I'd need a prosthetic, she was the first thing I thought of. I survived a plane crash, but nobody but you guys thinks I'm impressive for it. And I'm just a weathergirl. My job does not depend on my legs. I guess it just made me feel like...like the absolute worst things could happen to you, and the world still wouldn't really notice or care."

Wyatt nodded, finished his soda and crushed the can, then tossed it into the nearby tiny trashcan.

"So, you're saying you're of lesser value just because your prosthetic doesn't impact your life to the degree of your career?" Wyatt asked, "I think you're the lucky one. She probably had so much pressure on her, man. Meanwhile you're able to just...go back to your life. Go back to work. You're kinda lucky, Kelly."

Kelly thought about it, and realized Wyatt had a point. He turned his attention back to the catalogue while she continued, lost in her thought. He wasn't wrong. She was going to be able to get a new leg, go back to work and have her life resume, relatively unscathed more or less by the situation at hand, or, at foot, rather. Wyatt's cell phone rang, but he had it on silent, so it just buzzed endlessly without either of them noticing. This was frustrating, because on the other end of the call, Rachel was desperately trying to contact him.

"Well," Kelly said, shrugging, "regardless, it's cool to know that it's not a big deal and that I won't be, like, gawked at."

"At least not for that," Wyatt said, smirking, making her chuckle.

                                                                                                            ***

Rachel re-entered the shed, pocketing her cell, annoyed. She shut the door behind her and turned to see Angie sitting backwards on a chair, looking at Ricky, who was sitting staring mindlessly at the wall. Rachel tapped Angie on the shoulder, and she looked up at her, smiling politely.

"Hey, if you wanna take a break that's fine, I'll stay a while," Rachel said, and Angie nodded. She stood up from the chair, stretched and yawned.

"I could use a restroom break," Angie said, "thanks!"

Angie turned and exited the shed. As soon as the door was shut, Rachel went and locked the door, then turned and walked back to Angie's chair and sat down on it, snapping her fingers at Ricky, getting his attention. Ricky turned his face towards her, and for the first time, Rachel could really take in his face. Thin, almost like a teenager, covered in freckles with red hair. Rachel hesitated, then cleared her throat and spoke.

"Here's the deal," Rachel said, "Calvin's going to kill you. He's also going to kill your boss and her kid. But I can stop that. It doesn't have to happen. I don't want it to happen. But I need you to help me, man. I can't do this alone."

"What's it matter at this point," Ricky said, sounding defeated.

"It matters because I have a much bigger story for you than a corrupt politicians murder. You're an investigator, right? You like uncovering stories? Well how's this one for you. The guy they claimed killed Grudin, Oliver Brighton? He was part of an enormous child trafficking ring, and the plane crash? It only happened because his boss happened to be on the plane. That's why Calvin crashed it. As someone who was abused by an older man, I'd like to find the head honcho of this whole thing and bring him down. So work with me, and we both get out of this unscathed, or you can die in this shed. Your choice."

Ricky looked at her, his eyes wide. He hadn't expected there to be such a backstory to the whole thing.

"...I'm listening," Ricky said.

"Wyatt hates Calvin. For many reasons, but he hates him pretty good. Wyatt wouldn't disagree with me in that he needs to be stopped. He's already done so much damage, we can't allow him to make good on his new threat. So I need you to tell me everything you know about this woman, Leslie Grudin, and her child."

"I don't know much, to be honest," Ricky replied, shrugging, "I mean, she's furious about her husbands death, and she's got this developmentally disabled daughter, and-"

"Wait, what?" Rachel asked, interrupting him. That got her attention.

                                                                                                              ***

"I should get going," Wyatt said, standing up and pulling his jacket on. He tossed the catalogue back towards Kelly, who looked at the ones he'd circled before looking back up at him. He smiled at her and added, "don't worry, I'll come by again tomorrow, we can keep looking."

Kelly looked down at her hands on the bed and wanted to say something, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she just smiled weakly and nodded. Wyatt pocketed his cell phone from the bed and started towards the door, where he stopped, hand on the knob and turned back to Kelly.

"I don't think anyone's said it yet but...I'm really glad you're here, man," Wyatt said, "I...I was so scared. I thought, when you called me from the plane, that that might be the last time I ever heard your voice, and I...I didn't want it to be. You're my friend. I didn't want to lose you."

Kelly had fantasized about this moment a bit. Fantasized about a situation where Wyatt, emotionally, explains how much he cares about her, and then she'd get up and she'd kiss him and he'd kiss her back and that would be that. But she knew how ridiculous that was. He was married. He had a family. What could she really offer him, anyway? Scarlett came with money. A business. A large house. He loved her deeply, and she knew that. But the fantasy was nice, regardless. So instead she swallowed her pride, and she smiled.

"Thanks," she said, "I was terrified. I wasn't ready to go."

Wyatt released the doorknob from his hand and walked back to the bed, standing in front of her. Kelly's breath caught in her chest, as he reached out and touched her face softly. She shut her eyes and enjoyed the sensation. Wyatt then leaned in and hugged her tightly, and she happily hugged him back. After the hug, he promised he'd come back tomorrow, and then he left the room. The moment he was out of the house - she could hear the front door close - she laid down on the bed and, pressing her face into the pillow, cried. Wyatt, however, once in his car, pulled his phone from his pocket and noticed all the texts and missed call from Rachel. He quickly dialed her up.

"Hey, it's me, what's going on?" he asked, starting his car. He pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, then stopped dead, "...he WHAT?"

                                                                                                            ***

Rachel opened the door to her apartment and allowed Wyatt inside.

Sun Rai was at her parents so it was just the two of them. Wyatt stepped into the apartment, unable to form words. Rachel shut the door behind him as he entered, and finally, Wyatt threw his arms in the arm and laughed loudly.

"I don't even know what to say," Wyatt said, "I'm not surprised. I know I should be, but I'm not, not at this point. How can I be? After the other things he's done, coaxed others into doing? The manipulative piece of shit. So...so what's your plan then?"

"We use Ricky to our advantage," Rachel said, nervously chewing her thumbnail as she leaned against the door while Wyatt paced; she continued, "we strike a deal with him to find out who's running the trafficking ring, and we...we take them down."

"And he's agreed to this?"

"He has, if only because he doesn't want to die in a shed," Rachel said.

"And what about Calvin?" Wyatt asked, and Rachel looked at the ground. Wyatt knew what this meant. It was the thing they'd all been avoiding. The thing Celia had mentioned at the hospital. The thing Rachel had mentioned in Wyatt's bathroom the day of the plane crash. The one nuclear option none of them wanted to even entertain. Wyatt sat on the coffee table and buried his face in his hands.

"We can't," he whispered, "we...we can't."

"There's something else," Rachel said, "um...this woman, Grudin's wife, she has a daughter."

Wyatt looked up at Rachel, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"...a developmentally disabled daughter," Rachel concluded, and that broke him. Wyatt started crying. Rachel came to the table and sat down beside him, rubbing his back. She knew that would get him. Because of Mona, and her ASD, she knew that Wyatt would find a familiarity with Grudin's child. Wyatt must've cried for a solid five minutes before catching his breath and looking around the apartment.

"How then?" he asked, "how do we kill Calvin?"

"I don't know," Rachel said, her voice shaky, on the verge of tears herself, "...I don't...know. I just...I don't think it's right for us to sit here and let him do it all over again. I know Leslie wants justice for her husband, but...but her child shouldn't be in harms way because of that. Calvin is the villain in this situation. He's my friend, but...but he's gotta be stopped. He can't keep being allowed to do these things without any ramifications for his actions. I wasn't happy with Grudin's death, but it was a personal vendetta against a grown man who ruined his life. Killed his family. I understood it. I wasn't happy with the plane crash, but he was killing a producer of illicit pornography, an abuser of children, and Kelly survived so I figured, hey, what's the harm? I understood it. But this? A completely innocent, mentally disabled little girl who just happens to be in the line of fire? No. There's no justifying that."

Wyatt nodded. That being said, despite agreeing with her, he felt like he couldn't do it. How could he? How could he willingly take another life, even if for the greater good, the safety of a child? How could he possibly stomach it, live with himself knowing he killed someone? Grudin was already a sketchy enough grey area, but to outright kill someone he'd called a friend? He couldn't do it. He needed a third party, a disconnected yet willing companion who would do the deed for him. He needed someone with no real remorse for their actions. He needed someone who was happy to help him do something. That's when it hit him.

He needed Angie.

Ricky could smell coffee. He wasn't really awake, but he could smell coffee. Had he made coffee? Had someone made coffee for him? His eyes slowly adjusted as he squinted at  the light coming into  the room from a tiny window and he groaned. His head...god his head hurt. Had he been out drinking? Had he hit his head on something? None of this made sense. The last thing he could remember was...and then he saw them. Wyatt and a woman standing in front of him, each sipping from a coffee mug.

"He's awake," Wyatt called over his shoulder.

"Good morning!" Angie replied happily, "do you want coffee?"

Ricky growled and started to shake in his chair, tied firmly and tightly to it.

"Let me fucking go this instant you goddamned lunatics! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Angie pulled back and shook her head.

"He doesn't get coffee," she said, Wyatt nodding in agreement.

                                                                                                       ***

"Well," Dr. Warner said, "I really don't want to tell you this, but we have a problem."

Since the crash, once a week, Kelly had been going back to her doctor because her left leg wasn't healing correctly, and today, she was especially worried. See, Dr. Warner had called her the night before and asked her if she could come in a bit earlier than usual, and he'd never done this before, so it concerned her. Now, sitting in his office in her hospital onesie, she knew that bad feeling in her gut was for the right reasons.

"What kind of problem?" Kelly asked, her voice meek.

"Well," Dr. Warner said, "looking over your x-rays, I mean, this thing is bad. The muscle is dead, and the bones aren't setting right. Your must've landed on it when you fell from the sky. Now, consider yourself lucky. I know this sucks, but if this is the only negative outcome of surviving a plane crash, I think you're still coming out ahead."

Kelly shifted uncomfortably and nodded, swallowing anxiously.

"So...so what do we do?" she asked.

She didn't like the answer he gave her. Afterwards, when she was going through a nearby drive through to get lunch, all she could think about was how unfair life was. Sure, she'd survived a plane crash, but now she was losing something else. It seemed like life was always out to take something away from her the moment she started to feel good again, and in those times of need, she turned to comfort food. Sitting in the parking lot a few minutes later, eating her burger, all she could think about was how she needed more than comfort food. She needed comfort friends. Kelly pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number. It rang a few times, and then finally an answer.

"Hello?" Rachel asked.

"What are you doing?" Kelly asked.

"I'm actually on my way to a friends, are you okay?" Rachel asked.

"Can I come?" Kelly asked, and Rachel hesitated, then said okay, and gave her directions to Calvin's.

                                                                                                            ***

Wyatt entered the kitchen to find Calvin looking through the fridge. Calvin handed Wyatt a slew of items - lunch meat, cheese, condiments - before shutting the door and turning to the bread box, retrieving a loaf. Wyatt set all the stuff down on the counter near the bread and then refilled his coffee mug. Calvin started to fix a sandwich while Wyatt sipped from his mug, his back against the counter.

"Are you making him lunch?" Wyatt asked.

"I have to do something, we can't just starve him," Calvin said.

"It's a good thing your folks went out for the day," Wyatt said, "otherwise they might be curious why you have so many people over."

"If anything they'd be thrilled. Happy to see me being social," Calvin said, "though, truth be told, you aren't exactly the people I want to be social with."

"That's fair," Wyatt said.

The two men stood there in the kitchen, each opting not to speak instead. Calvin's folks had come home in the early afternoon, but then both had their own plans for the day, so the gang was able to continue about their business unquestioned. Wyatt drank from his mug and watched Calvin make the sandwich, and thought about how Calvin used to be a dad. Probably made school lunches, same as he did on the daily. In truth, Calvin probably weirdly enjoyed making lunch for someone. The front door opened unexpectedly and that caught Wyatt and Calvin's attention. They both stiffened up and Calvin grabbed a large knife from the block off the counter, only to see Rachel and Kelly enter.

"Oh," Calvin said, lowering the knife, "it's just you."

"Jesus, who were you expecting?" Rachel asked, "what's going on here that's got you guys on edge?"

Calvin and Wyatt exchanged a look, and Calvin plated the sandwich, then motioned with his head for Rachel to follow him to the shed. Wyatt sat down at the table and continued drinking, as Kelly poured herself a cup and sat down across from him. Once the sliding glass door shut, Kelly looked up at Wyatt, who was looking down at the newspaper, and she blushed. Wyatt finally looked up from the newspaper and smiled at her, and she blushed harder.

"I saw the doctor today," Kelly said.

"Yeah? How'd that go?" Wyatt asked.

"Not good," Kelly said, "I was going to talk to Rachel about it, but it seemed like she was needed, so. Anyway it's bad. They're gonna give me a fake leg."

Wyatt put his mug down and folded his arms on the table, squinting at her, confused.

"What?"

"My leg is dead," Kelly said, "it isn't gong to get better, so they're going to schedule me in for amputation and an artificial replacement. I guess, in a way, that'll be cool. Be part cyborg. I don't know, I'm trying to see the upside to losing a limb but it doesn't feel genuine."

"I think that's pretty rad," Wyatt replied, "just don't use your newfound robot powers for evil, okay?"

Kelly laughed and nodded. She'd meant to talk to Rachel, but in all honesty, Wyatt was the better choice. He always managed to make her feel better. Rachel, meanwhile, had entered the shed with Calvin, and was watching him kneel in front of Ricky to hand feed him the sandwich. Rachel sat on the workshop table and shook her head. Of all the things to be involved in, now they had entered the kidnapping phase. Calvin waited for Ricky to finish chewing, before giving him a drink from a water bottle.

"This is ridiculous," Rachel muttered.

"See, she gets it," Ricky said, "she sees how insane this is."

"What other choice did we have? He had Wyatt backed into a corner, he was giving up information," Calvin said, "besides, for what it's worth, Wyatt wasn't the one who did this. That honor goes to that nutjob girl he brought with him. I'd say that to her face, but frankly I'm kinda scared of her."

"She is offputting isn't she?" Ricky asked.

"Hey, you're not part of this conversation," Rachel said, glaring at him.

"I AM the conversation!" Ricky shouted, as Calvin stood up and put the bandana back around his mouth. Rachel laughed as Calvin set the remainder of the lunch on the table beside her and wiped his hands on his pants. He then walked to a small box and pulled it down from the shelf, unlocking it. Rachel picked up the remainder of the sandwich and started eating it, while Ricky protested with muffled yells.

"Right after the crash," Calvin said, "I came here, and I sat down and I took this box down and opened it. I couldn't stop thinking about all the people I'd hurt, unintentionally or otherwise. I killed Grudin because he killed my wife and daughter, but his kill count is two. Mine far exceeds that now. That makes me sick. I thought maybe Wyatt was right about me the whole time, and maybe I am the problem, so I took this out," he said, retrieving from the box a small pistol, continuing, "and I was ready to put an end to it all. Then I was called and told that Kelly survived, and that...that made me feel like less of a monster. But now, maybe we need this for something else."

"We can't just keep killing people, Calvin," Rachel said, talking while eating, "leaving a body trail is how serial killers get caught."

"I'm not a serial killer. I'm a domestic terrorist at this point," Calvin said.

"No argument here," Rachel mumbled.

"But maybe I can make up for it, by removing the problem," Calvin said, aiming the gun at Ricky, who's eyes widened in fear.

"Calvin," Rachel said, hopping off the table and grabbing his arms, "hey, this isn't...no. What happens when someone comes looking for him? You gonna take them out too? There's always gonna be another person. It doesn't end until we are caught, and you know how we get caught quicker? By killing people."

Rachel slowly lowered Calvin's arm, and Calvin sighed, sitting on a nearby stool. Rachel took the gun from him and set it on the table as Calvin buried his face in his hands and started to cry. Rachel stood there, rubbing his back, reassuring him. He'd helped get her medication, the least she could do was bring him some sense of comfort. After a few minutes, Calvin wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his head.

"Sometimes," Calvin said, "I wonder if I died at some point, and this shed is actually hell. All these horrible things that have happened in it or come out of it. Maybe this is my punishment. But...you wouldn't be in hell, so I guess that kind of defeats that theory."

"I think me being in hell depends on who you ask," Rachel said, "I am queer, after all."

Calvin chuckled a little and that made Rachel feel a bit better.

"Still," Calvin said, "it feels like I'm being eternally punished for something I'm not even sure I did. My family was taken from me and this is my afterlife? Sickening. You'd think things get easier but...I think, Rachel, some people aren't meant to have it easy and some people aren't mean to be here that long. I just want to be with them, I miss them so much. My daughter deserved a chance at life, and that fucker Grudin took it all away from her, ruining so many people in the process while he continued to get to campaign and work in politics. That's not the kind of man I want representing the people when he's the one hurting the people."

"I don't think anybody is gonna argue with you about Grudin," Rachel said, "but right now let's focus on the problem at hand, and that's what to do with him."

Rachel and Calvin both glanced back towards Ricky, who now had a rather somber look on his face. He was beginning to understand the reality of the situation.

                                                                                                          ***

After all was said and done, Wyatt took Angie home, Rachel and Kelly went home in their respective vehicles, and Calvin's parents eventually returned home that night. Sitting at the dinner table with them, pretending everything was fine and normal, that he didn't in fact have a hostage just outside in the shed, was eating away at him. But he ignored it. He laughed at his dad jokes and he complimented his moms cooking. He thought about, briefly, calling his sister but he didn't know what to say even if he did. Would she even answer? She was prone to not responding, after all. Calvin helped clear the table, helped put away leftovers, and even did all the dishes. After his folks watched TV in the living room for a bit, they retired to the bedroom, and that left Calvin all alone.

He sat in the living room, flipping through television channels, unable to focus on anything for more than scant seconds. He was still drinking coffee, which he knew he shouldn't be considering how late it was getting and how badly he'd sleep if he didn't stop, and his thoughts turned back to Grudin. Back to the man in the shed. Calvin finally stood up, finished his coffee and headed back to the shed. He unlocked the door, tugged it open and then flipped on the light. Ricky was still awake, still staring at the door. Calvin dragged a stool across the floor and set it in front of Ricky before taking his seat on it. He then reached forward and pulled the bandana off his mouth.

"...something doesn't add up," Calvin said, "why would they send an investigator out to gather facts about the crash? That isn't how airlines work. All their investigations are done internally. I didn't say anything earlier cause I didn't want to worry the others, but explain that to me."

"Well aren't you a genius," Ricky sneered, "yeah, you're not wrong. It is unusual isn't it? That's exactly what I said."

"Which then begs the question, who are you actually here for?" Calvin asked, and Ricky smiled weakly.

"You kill a man and you think his family won't be curious?" Ricky asked, causing Calvin's blood to run cold; Ricky cleared his throat and shook his head, his hair matted with sweat as he added, "his wife knows something ain't right about it. I mean, Brighton blows up a man and then doesn't stick around to take credit? Something about that whole situation didn't work."

"No, it didn't."

"Couple that with the fact that Brighton offed himself before Grudin's demise, that was suspicious as hell too," Ricky said, "so what you're looking at here, from an intelligent persons perspective, is a conspiracy of sorts. And she saw right through to that. She knew it was bullshit. The more she dug, the more she questioned, the more she realized something was wrong."

Calvin chewed his lip, and was afraid to ask, when he already knew the answer.

"It's his wife, isn't it?" he asked, and Ricky smirked.

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!" Ricky said loudly, "you want the prize behind door number 1 or number 3?"

"Then I guess," Calvin said, scooting off his seat and standing up, pulling the pistol from the table and looking at it, "I'll have to take what he took. I didn't get a wife or daughter, neither should he. I guess, if what I have to do is finish what I started, then I guess that's what I'll do, and if everyone sees me as a monster, then that's what I'll be."

Ricky had to admit, that hadn't been the response he was expecting.

"Wh...what?" Ricky asked, as Calvin approached the shed door, pulled it open and flicked out the light.

"Goodnight," Calvin said, "Sleep good."

"Wait wait wait, dude, wait!" Ricky shouted, "Wait!"

Calvin shut the door.

"It could be adjacent to a botanical garden and I wouldn't give a cats fart," Boris said sternly, "I'm dead, what's the view mean to me?"

This hadn't been the enjoyable afternoon Father Krickett had planned it to be. Walking through Ash Cemetery, the two men had looked at over a dozen potential resting places, and not a single one had done anything for them. Or rather, for Boris.

"It isn't all about you, it's also about the people who are coming to visit you!" John replied, annoyed.

"Oh, my death isn't all about me? Is there one goddamned thing in this world that is all about you when it happens? Why's everyone else always gonna be in consideration when it comes to your life altering moments? Ridiculous. Put me in a empty field next to a toxic river, it's the same sort of thing. Six feet under the ground, can't enjoy the place. But I suppose I should think of others comfort, not my own."

John leaned on a headstone and sighed. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, then put another piece of gum in his mouth.

"There are...stipulations one has to make when one dies," John said, "things you must consider. Yeah. You're right. You're dead, what do you care what the view is? But don't you want people to come visit you? You visit Polly all the time. Don't you want that? And people won't wanna visit an empty field next to a toxic river, Boris, they just won't. All you're doing is depriving yourself of visitation rights."

"Again, what do I care, I'm dead," Boris replied, leaning against a tree and crossing his arms; he exhaled and groaned, "Listen, John, I...I get where you're coming from, I do. I guess I'm just a little frazzled dealing with this. It's so...weird. I guess I always expected someone else to pick these things out for me. Ya know, manage my loose ends. It never once occurred to me that I be healthy enough to do it myself when the time came, so it's a little jarring picking out a final resting place."

Boris looked down at his shoes and thought about Polly. About where she was buried.

"I wish," Boris continued, "that it was easier to be selfish without sounding selfish. This is the one thing that should be for me. Everything else throughout my life has been for the benefit of others. I'm not allowed even one thing, even in death?"

Father Krickett cricked his neck, thinking about this. In a sense, Boris was right. So much of life was about pleasing others, doing what's best for those around you, falling to the whims of parents, partners, bosses, friends. When was a person allowed to be selfish without it seeming inherently selfish? He pulled at the sleeves of his turtleneck and sighed, running a hand down his face.

"When my brother died," John said, "we interred him at a local graveyard, you know, so we could come see him. But the thing was, he had always had issues with, what's it called, agoraphobia. He hated being outside a lot of the times. The irony of being placed in a cemetery wasn't lost on him, I'm sure. So we would visit him, but the entire time, all I could manage to think was how unhappy he must be to be out in the open like this, amongst strangers, something else he had a problem with. If it were up to him, he'd likely have chosen to be cremated."

Boris lit up a cigar and took a puff, listening as John continued.

"But nobody wants to carry a person throughout their life," John added, "that's the thing. You're a burden in life and a burden in death. You're born and suddenly everyone's lives have to alter to make room for your presence. You die, and suddenly everyone has to change their schedules to plan for and attend your services. And all that in between time? You're mostly a burden then too."

"This is horribly depressing," Boris said, making John chuckle.

"Yeah, well, that's life," John said, "It's too hard for mom and dad to keep him, find a place for the urn, to have walk by it everyday. Cemeteries...they allow the living a sense of removal. You aren't in immediate proximity, so you don't have to think about them, and the pain lessens quicker as a result. Not for everyone, everybody's grief works differently, but I'd say that's usually the way it goes down. Again...a burden to others, even when you're no longer alive."

"So what you're saying is that the dead deserve the right to be selfish?" Boris asked, tapping the ash from his cigar on a nearby headstone.

"Hey, come on, that's disrespectful," John said.

"Yeah I'm sure Franklin Adams of 1874 is really going to throw a fit," Boris remarked, and John sighed.

"What I'm saying," John continued, "is that yes, you're not wrong, the dead deserve the right to be selfish, and yes, most of life is about pleasing others or bending to their wills. But that doesn't mean people want to visit an empty field next to a toxic river if they want to see you."

"If people love you enough, they won't care where you're buried," Boris said, "ask those people who set up memorials at car crashes on the side of the highway."

John threw his arms up in frustration and turned, walking on, Boris walking slowly behind him.

"Fine!" Father Krickett said loudly, "fine, we'll throw you in a dumpset and fill it with cement! Or, or better yet, how about this, how about we attach you to an anchor and we throw you to the bottom of the ocean!"

"Well now you're just being ridiculous," Boris said, making John groan while also laughing.

Father Krickett had seen plenty of people struggle with their mortality. Going to the home, reading last rights, if there was one thing he was intimately familiar with, it was helping the soon to be deceased come to terms with their mortality. But this was different. This was personal. Boris wasn't just a resident at the home (hell, he hadn't lived at the home for over a year or so now) he was someone involved closely in John's day to day life. Someone who meant something very deep to him. Why was he making this so difficult?

"I probably should've died in the accident," Boris said, and this caught Father Krickett's attention.

"Hmm?" John asked, turning to face him again.

"The accident, the one Ellen had when she was little," Boris said, "all things considered, I likely should've died then. But I didn't. Instead, I got a ticking time bomb inside of me that I was unaware of. But I should've, and imagine if I had. That would've been poetic justice for the horrors I helped usher into others lives. I should've been held more responsible for my actions. Instead, I was literally allowed to walk away from it unscathed, while my daughter couldn't walk for most of her life."

"Do you...do you wish you had died then?" John asked.

"I don't know," Boris said, shrugging, "I just know that it would've made things a lot easier. Wouldn't be here now, doing this, for instance."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this complicating your day?" John asked, smirking.

"No, it's complicating yours," Boris said, and John stopped smirking. The wind seemed to stop blowing, and the air in the cemetery went dead silent. Just the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. John adjusted the neck of his turtleneck, then approached Boris slowly.

"What...what do you mean?" John asked.

"Let's face it, this is harder for you than it is for me," Boris said, "I've accepted it. It was...scary, at first, but at this point, I've accepted it. But you...you still haven't. You likely never will, having seen how you deal with other losses in your life, and that isn't a dig at you, John, it's just a recognition of your personality. So all of this...shopping for a coffin, looking for a resting place, this is performative. It's to ease your pain. Your anguish. Feeling like you're doing everything you can while you can."

Father Krickett bit his lip and nodded slowly. Boris wasn't wrong.

"I don't...I don't want you to die, I mean, yeah," John said, his voice cracking, "nobody wants anyone they care about to die. I've lost my brother, my boyfriend, so many people in my life that mattered to me. I was mad about surviving my car accident too, so I know that feeling all too well. After losing Steven, I closed myself off. I didn't allow myself to become close with anyone again because I knew firsthand the pain that you felt when you inevitably lost them. Until you, Boris. Until I met you. You're the first person I've opened up to in years. And a lot of that was because of how we both viewed the world. But also because I could see in you what I saw in them, what I missed in them, and in some warped way it was like I had them back."

Boris took a long puff on his cigar, then stubbed it out entirely, exhaling smoke into the air and tossing the butt on the ground.

"Yeah, you're not wrong. It's performative. But it isn't just for me. It isn't inherently selfish. I want you to be at peace. To have the best you can. I just wish you didn't have it right now," John said, "I wish..."

John leaned against another headstone and sighed, shaking his head.

"I wish we could've had what others had," John said.

Boris slowly approached and leaned against the headstone beside him.

"What do you mean by that?" Boris asked, "What we've had has been great."

"No, it...it has," John said, "please, don't get me wrong, but...well, we've said this before...if it were different, if you were younger, I were older, if we'd come from the same generation - either yours or mine - we could've had so much more. You admired Polly for being unashamedly out, even when she came from a generation that didn't accept it. She was brave, you acknowledged this. We could've been brave. Priests aren't supposed to fall in love. But I guess some things you can't help."

Boris smiled and put his hand on John's shoulder, causing John to look away.

"You once told me that time takes everything from us. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be fought, and it cannot be bargained against. It takes what it takes without compassion, but also without malice. It can't do it with either, because it isn't a living thing, it's a concept. You said memory is the only thing we have in the fight against time, and so long as we remember those we loved - even if they look nothing like we remember - then we've won. You've won. Because the idea of them is what's important. The feeling they imparted on you. Not what they looked like. That's what photographs are for."

John now looked at Boris, as Boris ran his old hand up to the young priests face and touched his cheek. John reached up and held it there.

"So once I'm gone, John," Boris said, "you're in charge of remembering me, okay?"

"Okay," John whispered, tears rolling down his face.

Boris leaned in and kissed him, and John happily kissed him back. It was a moment John had never expected to have, but Boris figured, well, this was the end. May as well give him something to remember him by. Life started to resume in the cemetery, the air began to blow again, and everything sounded more clear, more beautiful. Boris rested his forehead on John's and smiled, making John laugh anxiously. The last thing Boris ever anticipated to find in his old age was a real kind of love, but he was so happy to have met John and allowed himself to be open with him. Sure, to outsiders, it must've looked so strange. An old man and a young priest. But they didn't care. That's what love was. You ignored the strangeness and you embraced the quiet joy of the experience.

"They say the best years of your life are your 20s," Boris said, "but frankly, I'd reckon it's actually these years. The ones at the end."

"And what makes you think that?" John asked.

"You know yourself, fully, and you can be anyone you want without judgement or shame from your peers," Boris said, "if you're brave enough, of course."

"I'd say you're brave enough," John replied, both men laughing.

A pause as they just listened to the sounds of the cemetery around them.

"Hey John," Boris asked.

"Yeah?"

"You want my ashes?" Boris asked.

Another pause.

"Yeah."

                                                                                                      ***

Sister Jenn was doing some cleaning in John's office, organizing the papers on his desk and washing his windows a little. She usually did this once a week, and he'd never once acknowledged it, but she didn't mind. She didn't do it for him. She did it for the church. While wiping the window down, she heard footsteps enter the room and glanced over her shoulder to see Father Krickett standing there.

"Oh, hello," she said happily.

"Didn't know you did this," John said, "thank you, that's very considerate of you."

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," Sister Jenn said, making John chuckle as he sat at his desk. John sat in his chair, watching Sister Jenn finish her window washing, before she turned to face him and sat on his desk. She pulled her habit off and let her long blonde hair fall around her shoulders.

"What made you join the church, Jennifer?" John asked, and Jenn exhaled.

"That's a big question," she said, "I suppose it came from trying to find reason in a world without any. When you have a life where bad things happen to you, you want answers, reasons why. You can't just accept that this happens. So you turn to religion, which offers you the belief that it happens for a reason, to strengthen you. But then that doesn't exactly sit well with me, because if God loves me, why would he allow these horrible things to happen just to make me stronger? Aren't there easier, less traumatizing ways, to make someone stronger? The whole religion is nothing but contradictions, but I suppose that's where the faith comes in. Blind faith, though, don't like that. Still like questioning."

John smiled, nodding, as he reached down into his cabinet beneath his desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and uncorked it, putting two small glasses on the desk and pouring them both a glass. Jenn took it, hesitantly, and downed it in one go while John cautiously sipped on his.

"I hope you're happy, Jenn," John said, "with Whittle, with being you, with...with having the chance to be with the person you want. That's a very rare thing. You deserve to be happy. Not all of us get that."

"I am," Jenn said.

She put the glass back down on the table, hopped down from the desk and adjusted her frock, then told John she had to go for the night and that she'd see him tomorrow. John, now alone in his office, looked towards the stained glass windows in his office, and he turned his glass in his hand absentmindedly. So he would be the recipient of Boris's ashes. In a way, this meant that they would, in some warped way, get to be together forever. John smiled as he lifted his glass to his lips once more.

After all, Jesus did say to love everyone, didn't he?

Whittle rolled onto her side and stretched. She felt her leg leave the safety of the blanket and her skin touched the cool morning air of the bedroom. She opened one eye, and smiled, seeing Jenn laying on her side, watching her. Jenn reached out and put her palm on Whittle's face, stroking it gently.

"I used to think,"Jenn whispered, "that all the beauty in the world derived from the power of God, but now I know that even God couldn't create something as beautiful as you."

Whittle buried her face in her pillow to hide her blushing face. After a moment she resurfaced, biting her lip, trying not to laugh at Jenns sweet romantic cheese. Jenn put both hands on Whittle's face and kiss her right on the lips, and Whittle didn't fight it a bit. For as long as she could remember, all Whittle had wanted was to be absolutely adored by the person she was with, and now she had that after a lifetime of disappointing relationships, and she couldn't be happier.

"I love you," Whittle whispered, and Jenn blushed.

"I love you too," she said quietly.

Right now, during a time of such fraught uncertainty, surrounded by death, it was nice to have something as comforting as love to fall back on. Life felt safe, and understandable, here in bed with the woman she loved, and that was more than could be said for Boris at that moment, who was working on one of the hardest things anyone ever has to do...writing a will.

                                                                                                            ***

"I've never done anything like this so please cut me some slack," Carol said, "I'm not even an attorney, you're gonna have to get someone to look this over after the fact to make sure everything is on the up and up."

"That's not a problem," Boris said, sitting in his chair, Melody in the wheelchair beside him; he straightened his tie and added, "I just wanted help from someone I really know and trust first. That's all. Next to John, you're it, so I figured you'd be the best option."

"What do you even own?" Carol asked, "who am I bequething any of this stuff to?"

"My belongings mean jack shit," Boris said, "I don't care about my clothes, nobody wants them, give them away. What matters is the money."

Carol looked up, a bit surprised.

"The money?"

"From my book sales," Boris said, "ever since that released, my bank account has grown steadily fatter and fatter. That's what it all comes down to. I want some of it to go to the church, of course, to help John with his expenses, and some of it to you, for the home, but the rest..."

Boris chewed his lip and looked at his shoes. Ellen was getting married, she'd be fine. Lorraine lived a cushy enough life without his help. He knew where the money really needed to go. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"The rest is going somewhere else," he said, and that was all he would elaborate on. Carol nodded and started penciling some of this down in her notebook; Boris looked around the room and his eyes landed on Melody, where he smiled and added, "and of course, there's Whittle. Wouldn't have made it this far without her, can't just leave her out entirely."

"How thoughtful," Carol said, "and what do you want to leave her?"

That was the million dollar question. What could he possibly leave Whittle?

                                                                                                            ***

"I like a woman who  can make breakfast," Whittle said, sitting at the kitchen table as Jenn dropped a plate in front of her filled with various breakfast foods before plating her own and joining her, chuckling. Whittle picked up her fork and started eating while Jenn poured them both some coffee.

"The church opens in a few days," Jenn said, "you should come with me to see it. It's so beautiful."

"I'm excited!" Whittle exclaimed, "and that says something because I'm not a remotely religious person, so."

"I love churches, whether I'm religious or not," Jenn said, "especially during weddings. They always seem so ethereal then, during promises of eternal love. Something so beautiful about the whole visual. I remember being a flower girl when I was little and my aunt got married, it felt like being a fairy."

Whittle smiled as she listened to Jenn, while eating her eggs. Jenn being enthusiastic was so infectious, and she loved to bask in it. She also loved it because Whittle herself had rarely had happy moments like that, much less from growing up. Jenn lifted her coffee mug to her lips and took a long drink, then exhaled.

"Do you think..." Jenn started, before trailing off, "No, nevermind."

"What?" Whittle asked, stabbing her eggs and and chewing.

"...do you think you might want to get married one day?" Jenn asked, tapping her nails on her mug, looking down at the table. Whittle thought about it for a moment, then immediately nodded.

"Yeah, absolutely," she said, surprising Jenn; she added, "I mean, my folks had an okay enough marriage, but...I've always believed, and call me old fashioned maybe but, that the union of marriage is the truest testament to someones love to someone else. I know that there's plenty of arguments against that, that you don't have to go that far to prove you love someone, and I don't disagree. But to me, personally, for someone to say 'I want to legally be binded to you for the rest of our lives'...there's something really beautiful about that."

Jenn blushed and nodded in agreement. She sipped from her mug again and tapped her nails once more, anxiously.

"And...and you think you'd want that...with me?" Jenn asked, "going to Boris's childhood home, seeing those two men have a whole happy life together...it just made me yearn for something, I guess. Something more than just...anything. I don't know how to explain it."

"You don't have to," Whittle whispered, putting her fork down and reaching across the table, taking one of Jenn's hands in her own and kissing it gently, "Believe me, I get it."

And she did. If anyone one this earth got it, it was Regina Whittle.

                                                                                                          ***

Boris stood looking out the window, staring at the people in the home out in the garden, on the gazebo, enjoying their old age. Carol was leaning back in her chair, tapping her pencil absentmindedly on the table while Melody sat unshifting in her wheelchair. Boris exhaled and shook his head.

"Look at them," he said, "do they know? Or do they just willingly ignore it? The time is so brief now. Your whole life the only thing anyone ever tells you is to appreciate it because it goes so fast, but it doesn't, it goes slow. It goes slow until the end, then it goes fast. Do you think they're aware of how close to the end they actually are, or are they just willfully ignorant?"

"Not my place to say," Carol remarked, shrugging.

"I agree, I never found it went fast enough," Melody said, "I always wanted it to go faster. I was a child for far too long, and now an adult for even longer. That's why I wanted to expedite the process, you know? Get to the finish line quicker than usual. It's just too painful, and seeing what people your age deal with...it terrifies me. That sounds even worse than living to be that old in the first place."

Boris nodded, turning away from the window and leaning against the sill, groaning, his back hurting.

"I think only when you've fallen enough to want to end it yourself do you see it for what it really is," he replied, "your existence is an affront to nature, and to continue to exist is a revolutionary act because so much of life is trying to kill you at all times. Accidents, infections, murders. So much variety, yet here you are, still existing. So if you opt to try and kill yourself, that's also bold, taking away the one thing life can do to you and making the choice for yourself. Brave. Suicide isn't cowardly, it's the bravest act there is. That doesn't mean I condone it, but I also won't judge it."

Carol nodded, chewing on her cheek. In a sense, Boris had a point, but she wouldn't go brandying that viewpoint around anytime soon. She exhaled and turned her attention back to the will.

"Where's the money going, Boris?" she asked.

"To Chrissy," he said, "I want her to have as good a life as she can, and I want all future royals in perpetuity to be hers. She stopped me from ending it, so I'm gonna help her have the best life she could possibly have. I want her to have what Ellen didn't. A great adolescence. A wonderful college education. A very happy adulthood. Sure, Ellen's okay now, but...but this is my way to make up for it, vicariously."

"That's really sweet," Melody whispered, and Boris smiled at her.

"Just doing what I can while I can," he said, and Carol smiled as she noted this down. Boris had come so far as a person in the last few years, she was so very proud of his growth, and to see he was still facilitating it so close to the end of his life. In a way, it was admirable, inspiring, and she hoped that when the time came, she could do the same herself. Boris walked back around to the front of the desk, back towards the chairs, and sat back down beside Melody.

"And I want it airtight. It's hers, not her folks. They can't touch it. It belongs to her and her alone," Boris said.

"You know I'm not a lawyer, right? You know we'll have to get this actually processed, notarized and legally bound by an actual lawyer? I'm just taking it down for you," Carol said, and Boris nodded.

"I do know that, yes, thank you," he said, "I just want it as clean and understandable as possible. That way nobody can fiddle with the wording, take something away from her that's rightfully hers."

Carol nodded, writing something down, before sighing and looking up again. Melody excused herself to use the restroom, rolling the wheelchair out the door and down the hall, leaving Carol and Boris alone together.

"I gotta ask," Carol said, "...and normally I wouldn't ask this sort of thing, partially because it might freak someone out and partially because it might freak me out, but...what's it like? Being so close to the end? Knowing that, soon enough, the possible eternal nothingness will claim you and you will no longer see or breath or hear or think or feel? I mean in one instance you might imagine it'd be relaxing, finally, no need to be on the ball anymore, but I just gotta know what you think about it."

Boris bit his lip and thought about it for a minute or two. Carol leaned back in her chair and tapped her pen on the desk. After a few minutes, Boris sighed and pulled his hat off, setting it in his lap.

"We spend so much of our time alive focused on being alive that we tend not to think about death, and some people can do that easily and some people have to force themselves not to because it scares them, understandably. Being at the edge of the void, I suppose now, having lived a life full of loss, all I can say is that..."

His thoughts turned to Leanne, on her deathbed that afternoon, the look of sheer joy on her face as she stared into the nothingness.

"...I'm not afraid, I'm excited," he said, "The thing is, nobody knows what comes next, and all the evidence pointing in one direction or another is anecdotal at best, so I'm excited to see what the next step is. Can't be anymore painful than this one was, right? I don't know, maybe it changes day to day, one afternoon I'm scared and one afternoon I'm elated, but for the most part I like to think I'm excited. Maybe it's like so many people believe and you really do get to see the people who matter to you again, you know? Maybe that isn't just some fantasy we came up with to tide over our fears of mortality. I don't know. But that'd be great if it were true."

Carol nodded slowly, thinking. When faced with the end, would she be as brave? She'd be braver, she knew. Braver than anyone else had ever been. Because she was one of those people who always wanted to get onto the next big thing, and what's bigger than death?

"Well, we still haven't decided what you want to leave for Whittle," Carol said, sitting back upright in her chair.

Yes. What could he possibly give to the nurse who had given him so much?

                                                                                                         ***

When Boris got home that evening, pulling into the parking lot of the complex, he saw John leaning against his car, hands tucked in his peacoat pocket, clearly waiting for him. Boris parked, and Melody got out and took her wheelchair upstairs. John then re-opened her passenger side door and climbed into her seat.

"Hope you weren't out there for too long," Boris said, adjusting the heater vent so it blew on John.

"Nah, only maybe fifteen minutes," Father Krickett replied, "I was thinking tomorrow we could go shopping for a resting place."

"Yeah, I guess I should take care of that shouldn't I? Wouldn't want Whittle to just drag me out to the dumpster when the big day comes," Boris remarked, making Father Krickett laugh; Boris smiled and added, "John, can I ask you a question? You're a priest, you deal in all things afterlife...what do you think it's like?"

Father Krickett thought about it for a minute and then sighed.

"I suppose," John said, "that, in reality, science would tell you that everything people see - the tunnel and the white light and the faces of their loved ones - is just your brains way of coping with the fact that it's dying. Putting on a show right at the end. But...how could it be so coincidental? For everyone to see their loved ones, sure, that makes sense being coincidental. We all have people we loved and lost that meant the world to us, and to see them would be comforting. But for everyone to also see the tunnel and the white light? Sure, the power of suggestion is strong, and if people hear about it they might see it themselves...but the fact remains that it's weird that so many people have reported the very same thing."

Boris nodded, tugging on his jacket, pulling up his zipper to his neck.

"I guess," John continued, "what it boils down to is what do you believe? I like to think that when I go, and god forbid that ain't for a long time, I'm sitting somewhere beautiful and I'm approached by the people who passed before me, and we have a lovely little conversation and they ease me into the fact that it's over. They walk me into the arms of the Lord and everything melts away around me. I don't want to just see a face, I want a tour guide. That's how I'd like it to be anyway."

"That's lovely," Boris said, "so what time tomorrow?"

"Uh, how about 11?" John asked, "I'll be done with what little work I have to do by then and I know a beautiful cemetery to try."

After Father Krickett went along his way, Boris headed inside the apartment complex. He took the elevator up to his floor, all the while thinking about what Father Krickett had said, about the power of suggestion, coincidences, and, of course, just being surrounded by the ones who meant the most to you. Easing you into the next chapter. The doors opened and Boris exited, heading down the hall. He entered the apartment, shut and locked the door behind him, the hung up his coat and hat. He then headed into the kitchen for a drink where he found Whittle doing the dishes.

"Have an eventful day?" he asked.

"Actually it was very low key," Whittle replied, "Jenn and I just hung around here, talked about the future, some things, had some breakfast. It was kind of nice."

Boris opened a can of soda from the fridge, leaned with his back against the fridge door and drank, then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and nodded.

"Sounds pretty good. Carol was on me the entire time because I couldn't come up with anything to leave you," Boris said, and Whittle stopped what she was doing, put the remaining dishes in the sink, then turned and faced him.

"You don't have to leave me anything," Whittle said.

"Well, of course, but you've been here for so long, helped me through so much, I just thought-"

"No, I mean, Boris...you...you've already given me something nobody else could've," Whittle said, surprising him as she added, "your friendship with John, your pseudo association with the church, you brought Jenn into my life. That...god...that is more than enough. You gave me the courage to be open, to be happy, and to love someone and let them love me. Boris, you don't have to leave me anything because what you've already given to me is more than anything else you could give me, and I'll be forever thankful for that."

Boris hadn't expected, nor thought of this, but he was happy. He smiled, and walked towards Whittle, hugging her tight. He was happy to know that, once it was over, once he was gone, someone would be watching out for her. He finished his soda, went to his room and changed into his pajamas, before laying in his bed. After a few minutes, the door creaked open, and Melody came in, climbing onto the bed and laying beside him.

"...So you think I should keep going?" Melody asked, and Boris shrugged.

"Ultimately it's up to you, but I think there's plenty you have yet to see, things you won't expect," Boris said, "things that will surprise you and make you glad you stuck around for them. And, well, if not, then I guess you can blame my dead ass for convincing you otherwise. I'll take the heat, I don't mind."

Melody snickered and held his hand. The wrinkles, the old flesh, reminding her of her grandfather when she was a little girl.

"I guess I could stick it out for a bit," Melody said, "but I'm not making any promises."

"Hey, I'm not askin' ya to," Boris said.

And that's what Melody appreciated most. Boris wasn't trying to convince her that life was worthwhile and that suicide was a temporary solution to a permanent problem when in fact many peoples problems are permanent and suicide makes sense for them. No. He wasn't influencing her in either way, and he wouldn't judge her for either road picked. He just was letting her be, and that was more than anyone else in the world had ever offered her. Therapists, boyfriends, her parents, they'd all tried to push her in different directions, socially, academically, emotionally, but Boris...Boris let her choose, and that freedom meant a lot.

So yeah. She could stick it out. For a while at least. You never know what's on the horizon.

Calvin had the house to himself.

His folks were out for the evening, and thusly, he could do anything he wanted. He could anyway, he was a grown man after all, but still, living at home even in his late 30s, made him feel eternally like a child. First he watched some TV down in the living room, then he made a nice dinner for himself and ate at the table in the kitchen, basking in the uninterrupted silence he so rarely got these days. After this, he took a shower, and then he headed out to the shed in the backyard to work on fixing a small motor. Lately, he'd found, his hobbies were his only saving grace from the madness that was consuming his life, and he was ever so grateful for them. Sitting on the stool, soldering metal together, he heard a bang on the door and was surprised. His parents were gone, and it was - he checked his watch - 9pm at night, who could possibly be coming to visit? It might be Rachel, he figured, she liked to drop in often, but still, it seemed a bit too late for anyone to be coming over. Calvin groaned, got off the stool and then answered the door, surprised to see a disheveled Wyatt and a giddy looking Angie standing outside.

"...what the hell are you two doing here at this time?" Calvin asked.

"We need to hide a body," Wyatt said, and Calvin had to admit, that hadn't been what he was expecting to hear.

                                                                                            4 HOURS EARLIER

"There hasn't been any kind of innovation in the sandwich industry in years," Rachel said as she bit into her lunch and chewed, continuing while she did, "like, a sandwich is maybe one of the worlds oldest foods, and yet what was the last new sandwich? A sub?"

"I know that ciabatta bread wasn't invented until 1982, that's always been weird to me," Wyatt said, "that's way too late to be inventing new types of bread. But you're not wrong. The candy industry isn't stagnant. We're constantly getting new variations of candy bars. Maybe not new candy bars proper, but variations at the very least. So what's holding the sandwich industry up in their attempts to do anything fresh?"

Rachel swallowed, picked up her cup and took a long sip from her straw. She and Wyatt had met for lunch today simply because they hadn't seen one another in a bit, and Wyatt wanted to check in on her now that she was on proper medication. For what he could see, she was doing infinitely better. She seemed far less nervous and skittish. They were sitting in a little deli downtown, near Rachel's workplace, and each eating a sandwich.

"Things have seemed rather calm lately," Rachel said, "all things considered."

"They have, and frankly, I appreciate it," Wyatt replied, "like...I'm so sick of constantly having to scramble to fix something, it's nice to have times where absolutely nothing happens. Reminds me of my life before everything."

Rachel nodded in agreement.

"Has he come back yet?" she asked, and Wyatt shook his head.

"Surprisingly no," he said, "I was wholly expecting him to, he said he would. But so far he hasn't shown his face again, and honestly, that's for the better. Last thing I wanna deal with right now is a private investigator for an airline. I have enough on my plate as it is. But if he does, don't worry, you'll be the first to know. Well, ya know, outside me, cause I'll be the one dealing with it."

Rachel sighed, finished her sandwich and looked at her phone. It was about time for her to head back to work, and frankly, lately, she hadn't been annoyed by it. Work had been the only thing that was keeping her sane. Plus, she got to work with Sun Rai, and that was nice. To spend time with your partner in a non partner setting, just as coworkers, that was oddly comforting. Work was the only bit of normality she felt she had anymore. She wiped her hands on her jeans and exhaled.

"Well," she said, "hopefully he just recognizes there's nothing here for him to find, and he leaves town. Cause unless someone coughs something up, and nobody will, he won't have any information to report back with. I highly doubt Kelly's gonna tell him squat, especially since she didn't know about it when it happened."

"Here's to hopin'," Wyatt said, raising his cup to her. Rachel stood up, pulled her jacket back on, readjusted her apron and hugged Wyatt as he sat in his chair. She then exited the deli, leaving Wyatt alone with his food and his thoughts. As he continued eating, he thought about his children, his place of work, his relationship with his wife, and so much more. All he wanted was for things to go back to normal. Maybe he could do it. Maybe he could stomach the guilt of killing another person. Calvin had to be taken out for the greater good. But...but no. He just wasn't that kind of person. He could never pull the trigger. He took another bite and chewed, completely unawares that in the corner booth across the restaurant, Angie was watching him.

                                                                                                         ***

Calvin visited the graveyard that afternoon, bringing the monthly bouquets for his wife and daughter. He set them down on their respective headstones, then seated himself between them, listening to the birds sing and the soft low hum of the groundskeepers landscaping tools somewhere in the near distance. How ironic, he thought, the most peaceful place is the place you don't even get to experience the peacefulness of. He sighed and put his hand on his wifes stone.

"It's all fucked up," he said, "I'm all fucked up. You would hate the man I've become, and yet...I became this man because of losing you. The irony is not lost on me, I assure you. I want things to go back to how they were, but...but I'm not sure they ever can. I think we're too far gone at this point."

An older couple walked by, also holding flowers, clearly here to visit someone. Calvin watched as they went over the small hill and disappeared from sight before turning his vision towards his daughters headstone. He felt his eyes swell up with tears, and he didn't even try to not cry.

"At this point," he whispered, "all I want is to be with you both. I don't care about anything anymore. I've done such monstrous things in the name of misguided morality, and everyone is right, Wyatt is right...I'm a bad person. Now I just wanna rest. Now I just wanna be with you."

He exhaled and wiped his face clean with his arm, trying to regain what little composure he had left. What, really, did he have to stick around for? Everything was over. Sure, there was an investigator in town for the airline, but that wouldn't last. Otherwise, Brighton was gone, Grudin was dealt with and even Wattson was finished. Kelly had survived the entire ordeal, perhaps bouncing back even stronger than she'd been before, and so really, what good did it do anyone to have him stick around? His folks would be having a night out tonight, perhaps he would take advantage of it. Relax. Do some hobby work. Then do what everyone seemed to want him to do, and put an end to it all.

After all, what he really wanted was to be with his family again. Why deny himself that joy.

                                                                                                             ***

"Why can't I come to your moms group?" Wyatt asked, and Scarlett scoffed as she stood in front of her vanity mirror, applying eye makeup.

"Because you're not a mom?" she said, "pop out two kids and then come talk to me about membership."

"Wow, there's membership? This group really is classy," Wyatt said, shifting his weight on the end of the bed as he watched her do her makeup. He couldn't help but smile at the sight. Wyatt had always loved watching his wife apply makeup, he always found her at her most beautiful when she did the most seemingly mundane tasks. He sighed and let his hands hang down between his knees, saying quietly, "I don't wanna fight anymore."

"Me either," Scarlett said, turning to face him on her little stool, "I'm sick of arguing. We need to spend some time together. Get away for a bit or something. Maybe leave the kids with my parents and just...just go somewhere, you know?"

"That sounds like a good idea," Wyatt said. After she finished, she gathered Mona and their son and headed out with her child bag in hand, leaving Wyatt alone for the night. Wyatt stood in the empty foyer of the house, hands in his pockets, unsure what to do with himself. He turned and looked around at his surroundings, chewing on his lip. He could call Kelly, see if she wanted to go do something, or just hang out. Was that weird though? Going to hang out with another woman while your wife was away? She was just a friend though, so probably not. Suddenly a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and he quickly answered, surprised to find Ricky on the porch. Ricky removed his hat in a polite manner, grinning.

"Did you wait until my wife left to knock?" Wyatt asked, "that's a little creepy."

"Well, figure you wouldn't want any family around for this," Ricky said, as he tried to make his way into the house, but Wyatt continued to block the front door. Ricky sighed and, reaching into his coat, pulled out a paper, unfolding it and handing it to Wyatt. Wyatt read it, his eyes widening, before looking at Ricky, who just grinned. Wyatt then stepped aside, and allowed him to enter.

"Where did you get this? Who even wrote it?" Wyatt asked, and Ricky shrugged.

"No idea, it was just left on the doorstep of my motel room," Ricky said, "And while I don't claim it to mean anything concrete, I would be a pretty bad investigator if I didn't at least look into it."

"This says nothing, honestly, this could've just been written by someone wanting to cause me grief," Wyatt said, shaking the paper, "there's literally nothing in here that could be construed as any kind of proof of guilt. It's the most vague thing I've ever read, honestly."

"If it's so meaningless why are you so vehemently defending your innocence?" Ricky asked, "just asking."

Wyatt opened his mouth to say something else, then just as quickly shut it. He didn't want to bury himself in a deeper hole. Ricky smiled and continued looking at the photos in the foyer, admiring Wyatt's family. Wyatt wanted to scream. Who would've done this? Who would've tried to pin everything on him? Calvin? No, even he wouldn't stoop this low, would he?

"So," Ricky said, holding a school portrait of Mona, "anything you want to admit to?"

Wyatt sighed, knowing he had no choice. He'd been put in a corner, and he knew it was time to come clean. He just hoped everyone would understand.

                                                                                                        ***

Rachel and Sun Rai had ordered in food that night, as neither didn't want to cook after working all day, and were planning for the next few days while they lounged on the couch, eating and watching TV on mute. Sun was debating whether or not to go see her father, because he'd be in the hospital for a week or so, and she was worried that if she didn't see him beforehand, she wouldn't be able to stomach going while he was there, despite having been a nurse. Rachel slurped some noodles off her chopsticks and shrugged.

"Whatever you decide you know I'll support," she said, "but forgive me if I don't really know how to respond. When you don't really have parents, it kind of makes giving advice to those who do a bit harder."

"That's fair," Sun Rai said, stabbing some shrimp with a fork, adding, "you know, you could come with me. They'd love you. They aren't, like, super supportive exactly, but once they got to know you, they'd love you. My mom already kind of likes you as it is. You're growing on them. Plus I could use the support."

"I could handle that," Rachel said, smiling, putting a hand on Sun Rai's thigh.

They continued eating for a bit, watching some commercials, until Rachel set her things down on the coffee table and exhaled, leaning back into the couch and running her hands through her long hair.

"I've actually been thinking about going to see my own parents," she said, "I just...even if I have to twist their arms, I'd like them to try and get along with me. I don't like not having family. It bums me out severely. I was thinking maybe we could schedule a dinner that we could go to together, or maybe go to their house cause my mom loves to cook. Maybe if we just...ya know...get in there, let them see me, us, for who we are, then-"

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket," Sun Rai said, "I just...I don't want you to be let down."

Rachel knew the likelihood of her parents accepting her were slim to none, but she figured she still had to try, if for no other reason than to at least be able to say she was the one who tried. Rachel slumped back down into the couch and crossed her arms, leaning into Sun Rai, who stroked her hair. Maybe Sun Rai was right, she should tone down her hopes. But lately, it felt like hope was all she had left.

                                                                                                              ***

"Thank you," Ricky said, as Wyatt handed him a beer from the fridge. Wyatt pulled his own out and they both popped the lids before taking a drink. Wyatt leaned against the counter and sighed, shaking his head. Where to even begin? Where to start?

"Probably best to start at the beginning, I guess," he said, "though at this point it's hard to put my finger on what exactly was the beginning. There's so much it all just blends together now."

"That's fine, just take your time, I'm in no rush," Ricky said, lifting his beer to his lips.

Wyatt didn't know what to say. Robert Grudin felt like the right starting point, but for that, he'd need to contextualize the necessity that brought about his death, meaning starting with Calvin and his family being killed by Grudin's carelessness. God, so much set up. He felt like he was trying to recite a novel. Wyatt took a long drink and then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

"I guess," Wyatt started, "...I guess it started with our high school reunion. Our friend, Calvin, he was there in body only, not in spirit. He'd already lost everything that mattered to him. Robert Grudin saw to that. Killing his family in a headon collision brought on by driving under the influence and then not taking responsibility for the fact. Everything is Calvin's fault. I mean, that's not fair, we all had a hand in it, but...but it all stemmed from him. His rage and his...his thirst for justice. Never seemed to occur to Calvin that maybe justice just isn't something we all get, or that by hurting others he was lowering himself to their level. He seems to have this superiority complex about him, that everything he does is justified."

"Sounds like you've put a lot of thought into this," Ricky said, standing up and pacing as he drank, "sounds like, maybe, Calvin's gotten your goat more than you'd like him to."

"You have no idea. And you have no idea the lengths he'd go to to secure what he thinks are moral accomplishments. He has a strong idea of what is right and wrong but no objective way of knowing the difference, it seems. Frankly, I'm sick of dealing with his bullshit."

"Then why do you?"

"Because if I don't, who knows what else he'll do. He's already caused so much damage," Wyatt said, and this caught Ricky's interest. Ricky set his beer down on the table and pulled out his pad and pen, preparing to take a statement.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, "what has he done?"

This was what Wyatt had been waiting to do. Turn everything on Calvin over onto someone who could potentially hold him responsible for his actions. Now that he found himself at that precipice, however, could he go through with it? It would tear the whole thing wide open. It would potentially ruin Rachel's life as well. He didn't want that, especially after she'd already been dealing with her delusions as of late, the last thing she needed was some kind of legal trouble. And Celia...a single mom, taken from her child simply because of her somewhat distant involvement in the entire ordeal? Calvin had to be stopped, but at what cost to the others? Wyatt took a long drink and then shook his head.

"I'm not entirely sure I know the full extent of his actions, to be honest," Wyatt said.

"You can't just back down," Ricky said, approaching Wyatt, backing him up against the countertop, "if you know something, anything, that could hold him accountable for Grudin's death, or perhaps the airline crash, you could be saving more people than you think you are. I know you think you're doing the right thing, protecting those involved with you, but think of who he might hurt next."

"I do," Wyatt said sternly, "I think of it every goddamn day. Of what he might do to the next person he perceives as 'deserving it', even if it means hurting innocents. But I just..."

Wyatt trailed off, looking at the floor. He felt Ricky grab his shirt and hold him tightly against the counter, glaring at him. Wyatt panicked. He didn't know why he'd even agreed to this. He could've turned Ricky away, said nothing about anything. All he had was a vague, unsigned letter that really held no water whatsoever. Ricky gritted his teeth and stared into Wyatt's eyes.

"You don't even know what you're dealing with," Ricky hissed, "the people you've pissed off. If you want any shot of normalcy for the rest of your life, now is the time, because-"

But Ricky didn't get to finish his sentence, as he dropped like a rock to the floor. Standing behind him, holding a baseball bat, was Angie. Wyatts eyes ran from the investigator up to Angie, and his mind was at a loss for words. How did she even know he was here? How did she know to...but that's when it hit him.

"You sent it," he whispered, "you gave him that note."

"I've been following you for days since then, waiting for him to make his move," Angie said, handing Wyatt the bat, the very bat he'd once used in his high school baseball career; she stammered, adding, "I...I didn't...I didn't know what else to do. I knew we had to do something. I had to do something, to help you, I mean. He was gonna take you down, for things you didn't even do, that isn't right."

Wyatt kneeled down on the kitchen floor and picked up Ricky's wrist, feeling his pulse. He was alive. Wyatt then reached up and wiped his face, not realizing he had a smearing of blood on his hand. Wyatt then looked back up to Angie, and surprisingly, he smiled. She had, in fact, helped, even if it'd been in a way he hadn't wanted. He stood up, finished his beer, then turned back to Angie.

"We need to get him out of here," Wyatt said.

"Where can we take him?" Angie asked.

"I know a place," Wyatt replied.

Sitting on the stool, soldering metal together, Calvin heard a bang on the door of his shed and was surprised. His parents were gone, and it was - he checked his watch - 9pm at night, who could possibly be coming to visit? It might be Rachel, he figured, she liked to drop in often, but still, it seemed a bit too late for anyone to be coming over. Calvin groaned, got off the stool and then answered the door, surprised to see a disheveled Wyatt and a giddy looking Angie standing outside.

"...what the hell are you two doing here at this time?" Calvin asked.

"We need to hide a body," Wyatt said, and Calvin had to admit, that hadn't been what he was expecting to hear.

"Boris was a good man," Burt said, "he was honest. He was kind. But he wasn't always that way. He had to work hard to become that way and, I think, the fact that he did that at the age he was proves that anyone can change at anytime, regardless of age."

Burt took a long pause, exhaled, and continued as he looked out at the crowd before him.

"Admittedly, I didn't get to know him as well as others here did, Carol, for instance, but what I did know of him was that he was a person who strived to undo the wrongs he'd committed in life and come out the other side better for it. That's admirable. I want to be like Boris in that sense."

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked to see Boris standing there. Burt sighed and shook his head.

"This is hard," Burt said.

"Yeah, giving a eulogy isn't easy," Boris said.

The small crowd stood up from their seats and dispersed, heading back to their various activities. Carol approached the little podium where Burt and Boris stood and she flipped through her little notebook she kept for certain things, writing in pen in it as she exhaled, looking frustrated.

"Listen," Carol said, "I know this is important to you, but I can't force anyone to sit through a fake funeral for the sake of your ego. This is a rehearsal, but when the moment actually comes, they likely won't be here and the seats will only be filled with a few people, and I hope you can accept that."

"I'm aware that most people don't care about me, yes," Boris said, smirking, making Carol chuckle as he continued, "but the people who will be here are the ones who matter. I'm gonna get Whittle and John and anyone else I can round up. My wife, perhaps."

"You think your wife would really wanna come to this?" Burt asked.

"She's coming to my actual funeral," Boris replied, shrugging.

"Yeah, cause she's expected to," Burt said, "but this is just like you're putting on a play."

"First of all, she's coming because she still cares about me, not because she's expected to, so, ow, thanks for that. And secondly, she'll come simply because she knows this is important to me and she's a nice person," Boris said. And he wasn't right. Lorraine was a nice person. In fact, when it came down to it, there was only one person he was going to have trouble convincing to go, and it wasn't who he'd expect.

                                                                                                            ***

A few phone calls later and Boris had convinced just about everyone to show up to his pretend funeral. Everyone, that is, except John.

Sitting in the diner, having breakfast with him the day before the living funeral was meant to happen, Boris just couldn't understand why John had neglected to respond to the invite, and then, when asked about it in person, deflected the question entirely. Boris poured some syrup on his pancakes as he watched John tear his hashbrowns in half and sip his coffee while he ate them.

"The nice thing about being so close to the end is I can eat whatever I want with no consequences,"  Boris said as he cut a piece of pancake off and stabbed it with his fork, "I mean, I'm gonna die anyway, so why not just fill myself up with delicious garbage right?"

"So what you're telling me is there are upsides to the afterlife," John said, not looking away from his newspaper.

"I'm just saying it's nice that, at the end, you can give into total wanton indulgence," Boris said, "your innermost desires and animalistic instincts, the most base things one could want, can finally be achieved because, really, what's the downside? Unless, perhaps, you believe in Heaven and Hell and are afraid of spoiling your good name with the big man upstairs right at the finish line, but frankly, between you and me, that seems a little petty on his part. You'd think even God would understand that, hey, it's over, have some fun while you can."

John chuckled as he bit into his hashbrown and chewed, nodding in agreement. Boris finally put his fork down on the edge of his plate, drank his own coffee and then cupped his hands on the table.

"Why aren't you coming?" Boris asked.

John finally looked away from his newspaper and at Boris's face, their eyes meeting.

"Why aren't you coming, John?" Boris asked, "this means a lot to me. I want to know what people think of me before I go. I want to know that I mean something to anyone. And there's nobody I'd like to hear more from than yourself. So what's the deal?"

"...it's too hard," John said quietly, "it's too...real."

"No, what's going to be too real is my actual funeral. This is play pretend. This is a dress rehearsal. John, you're a priest, you of all people should know what it's like to want your last wishes fulfilled. What I'm facing down, the prospect of nonexistence, that's terrifying enough without having the comfort of those who are the closest to me. So why aren't you coming?"

John had thought about this a number of times. How could he properly explain it? He sighed and ran a hand through his blonde hair.

"...when my brother died," John said, "I was the one expected to give the eulogy. My parents spoke too, obviously, but the biggest effort fell to me. After all, he was my brother. Then, when Steven died, again, it fell to me. Course, that one was a bit different. A bit more...private, considering the circumstances, the nature of our relationship, but still. I'm tired of praising the life of people I don't want to leave in the first place. It isn't a personal thing against you, it's a preference for myself. I'm already having to say goodbye. Why must I do it publicly?"

Boris hadn't considered this. He hadn't considered just how emotionally painful it might be for John to speak on his behalf. It was true that, of all the people he knew - friends, lovers, whatever - John was the closest Boris had ever allowed a person to get to him. Boris sighed, wiped his eyes with his hand, and nodded weakly.

"I understand," he said, "besides, what could you possibly say there that you haven't already told me directly?"

John felt bad. He didn't want to feel bad, but he did. He turned his attention back to his hashbrowns and coffee, Boris to his pancakes, and neither one said another word for the remainder of breakfast. What more could be said when so much already had been?

                                                                                                          ***

Boris had rarely worn a suit in his life.

He'd somehow managed to avoid the necessity, and now that he was wearing one, he felt kind of sad about that fact because he looked damn good in it. Dark blue with a yellow tie, he looked nice, proper, clean. Standing in front of the mirror in Carol's room, alone, he couldn't help but admire himself, and he felt good about that too. For so much of his life, he had shyed away from the side of vanity, but now, at the very end, he was allowing himself to appreciate his appearance, even in his old age. That felt good. The door opened and Carol entered, tapping on her notebook.

"Everyone is here," Carol said, "so whenever you're ready, Dapper Dan."

"Everyone?" Boris asked, and Carol's face sunk a little.

"Well, not everyone," she replied softly. Boris knew John wouldn't speak, but he was surprised he wouldn't even come. That, admittedly, kind of hurt. Carol approached Boris and he turned to look at her. She was in a very elegant black dress with pearls around her neck, and her hair straightened. She reached out and adjusted his tie, smiling as she did so, saying, "you clean up pretty nice, kid."

"...why didn't he come?" Boris asked quietly, the sadness in his voice breaking Carol's heart. She pulled her hands away from his tie and placed them on his chest, as he sniffled, trying not to cry.

"Sometimes the people we want the most to acknowledge us don't, even in our time of need, even when they love us deeply," Carol said, "but you have to recognize this is hard for everyone else too, right? I know you're the one who's at deaths door, but, Boris, shit...losing someone you're so close to...it hurts."

Boris walked to Carol's bed and sat down on it, running his hands over his face. Carol followed and seated herself beside him. He didn't talk for a few minutes, then he finally cleared his throat and said

"I love him."

"...yeah?" Carol asked, smiling meekly.

"I ignored myself for so long," Boris said, "but I do. It isn't fair. Polly might've been unable to be unapologetically herself during her lifetime, but she at least got to be with who she wanted. She didn't let shame or confusion stop her. I didn't even get that chance. I never will. I have to go to my grave with a life full of what ifs and half baked fantasies. And now, right at the precipice of the end, he isn't even here. The person I wanted here most couldn't even be bothered when it mattered."

Carol rested her head on Boris's shoulder and exhaled.

"Yeah, people are disappointing," she said, "but look at all those who did come. Lorraine and Whittle and Jenn and all the friends here at the home, Burt, and...myself. I've always been here for you."

Boris glanced at her, and she smiled. She had always been here for him, this was in fact true. Carol, next to Polly and his wife, was likely the woman he'd gotten closest to throughout his life. It had never once felt romantic, or anything beyond general companionship, but her friendship was something he had kind of gotten so used to that he'd started to take it for granted. Carol was the first friend he made at the home. Carol was the first person he told about dying. Carol was the one who helped arrange this living funeral. Carol. Carol. Carol. Boris reached up and rubbed her back, and she shut her eyes.

"...I'm going to miss you," she said softly, crying a little into the crook of his neck; she waited for her voice to stop shaking, then continued, "...you have no idea how much I'm going to miss you."

"I'm gonna miss you too," Boris replied quietly.

And he really, truly meant it.

                                                                                                      ***

The living funeral was better than he expected.

Burt said some kind things, his daughter said some very nice stuff, his wife, his friends. They all had nothing but pleasant things to say. After it was over, and the group went about the "wake" portion, where they chatted amongst themselves and had snacks, Boris snuck away to the outer area of the home, to the gazebo, and sat himself down. Sure, he'd been roasted a little, but hey, he could take some jabbing at his character. He was able to laugh at himself. Sitting in the gazebo, a napkin on his lap with some finger sandwiches on it, he listened to the sound of the birds and the wind in the trees and he realized, just then, that he would miss these things. These simple little things that you hear or see everyday and never stop to fully appreciate. Only once when faced with the void of nonexistance do you suddenly realize just how precious they actually are, the sounds that make up our lives.

"Talk about your rampant unchecked narcissism," a voice said from nearby, and Boris's attention snapped to the front of the gazebo, near the stairs, where John was standing.

"Oh, look, it's an opinion nobody asked for," Boris remarked, sounding hurt. John smirked as he entered the gazebo and sat down next to Boris. Boris hesitated momentarily, then gave in and handed John a finger sandwich, which he graciously accepted and bit into. The two men sat there for a bit, chewing and listening.

"I'm sorry," John finally said, "I know I'm a priest, I know you rely on me, but...I just couldn't do it."

"It's fine," Boris said, "it was callous of me to even think you might. Carol kind of opened my eyes to the fact that despite being all about me it isn't all about me. I might be the one dying, but the ones I'm leaving behind are also in pain. I get it."

"No, I don't think you do," John said, catching Boris's attention; Boris watched him as he turned the sandwich over in his fingers and sighed, saying, "it isn't just about losing you, or the way I feel towards you, it's...it's so much more than that. You and I share a level of emotional intimacy that I never even shared with the men I loved openly. That's a rare thing, Boris. Steven and I, we were so good together, but we never talked deeply about things the way you and I do. I'm not just losing you. I'm losing part of me, and that...that scares the hell out of me."

Boris's eyesbrows lifted, surprised by Johns words. John sighed again and continued.

"And the thing is," he went on, "it's selfish, and I'm aware it's selfish, and I'm firmly in a career field where selflessness is the word of the day. Give your life to God. Help those around you who need council. But...but aren't I entitled to a little bit of selfishness now and then? So much of what I do with my life is at the expense of myself, for others, and I just...I needed to stay away for once. It's too hard to reconcile the reality that is mortality, especially the mortality of those I love so much. I'm never going to share another level of emotional intimacy with another man the way I do with you. That's a hard thing to accept losing."

Boris nodded, looking down at his shoes.

"I'm sorry," he said, making John laugh.

"Don't apologize for dying!" he replied, "that's...I mean, it happens to all of us. One day this situation will be reversed, and I'll be in your place. I only hope that, when that time comes, I'll have someone there for me the way I couldn't be there for you."

"You've been there so much already, John," Boris said, reaching out and taking his hand in his own, squeezing gently, "I don't know why I expected you to be there for this. Everything you said makes sense. You have every right to have a hard time accepting this. A right to distancing yourself. I don't think anyone would really blame you. I'm just so sorry that your life has been touched by death and loss and grief so regularly, and I hope that after me, you won't have to deal with that as much. You deserve to be happy. To be safe and comfortable."

Boris looked towards him, and John was smiling, near tears. Boris smiled back.

"You deserve a life full of life, not of death," Boris said, "and I sincerely hope you get it."

John leaned in and hugged him, and Boris hugged back. Boris knew he'd never get what he wanted, which was a different lifetime, a lifetime of being openly himself, a lifetime spent with this man, but that was okay. The time John had given him lasted a lifetime anyway.

                                                                                                        ***

Boris was tucking Ellen in after a long day. She'd struggled with her homework, and had spent much of the evening frustrated. Boris did his best to help her, and he even helped Lorraine make dinner that night. As he sat on Ellen's beside, pushing her hair from her face and smiling at her, she couldn't help but feel safe. It had been a rough couple of weeks. Her grandmother, Lorraine's mother, had passed unexpectedly, and seeing how close Ellen and she had been, Ellen was having a hard time adjusting to the loss.

"You think she's okay?" Ellen asked, squeezing her stuffed rhino to her chest.

"Yeah, I think she's okay. She's not in pain, and that's a good thing," Boris said.

"It's scary," Ellen said.

"Death is scary, yeah," Boris replied, "and while it can happen randomly, the odds of something like that are slim, so you don't have to worry, kiddo. You're safe."

"But I'm gonna die?"

"Someday, everyone does."

Ellen waited, chewing on her lip, then looked back up at her father.

"And you're gonna die?" she asked, and he chuckled, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

"Yeah, I am," he said, "but not for a long, long time."

It was likely the only promise he made that he kept.