Chapter 37

Shadows play on memories

Eclipsing their jagged edges

Where'd you go?

Who are you now?

Who am I, when you're not around?

AGE 18, SEPTEMBER

Let the record show—Itried. I really fucking did.

I tried to be stronger.

Better.

Good…

I stopped partying as much, stopped drinking every single day…

And instead I turned my attention back to more productive things, like how I was in the weeks that followed our return from Florida, before the day to day mundanity caught up with me, and I started drifting toward more maladaptive ways of coping.

Taking a page out of Ray's book, I made the internet my new playground.

My new drug of choice:

Believing I could do what the FBI couldn't, and finding Isobel Montgomery.

It's not like I had anything better to do.

Prep for college? Yeah, I think it's safe to say that whole plan fell apart.

I did get into NYU for music studies. Got my acceptance letter a month after Izzy disappeared. I kept it for a while, but when the deadline came and went, and the investigation into Izzy's abduction had all but come to a standstill, I struck a match and watched our future burn.

It was a rough winter. An even rougher spring.

But then… then something shifted.

I suppose if I had to pinpoint when exactly this shift occurred…

Well, I'd be a liar if I said it wasn't prom, and dancing with Jeremy, and the promises I made him.

What can I say? It gave me hope too. Hope for all of us, that somehow things would work out.

So rather than end that night shitfaced, like I'd planned, I found myself going straight home after dropping off Jeremy, cracking open my laptop, and burning through what was left of my buzz with a scalding hot pot of fresh coffee, and an overwhelming compulsion to just… do something…

I started hunting.

Falling down rabbit holes upon rabbit holes, until I was certain I'd mentally break or end up in prison from all the bullshit I stumbled upon…and the horrors that many people suspected happened, and would go into great, twisted detail to describe. As if it was just a made up story for them to get their fucked up kicks out of.

I knew there was national coverage of Izzy's abduction in the weeks, and even months, that followed her abduction, before it seemed to fizzle out when nothing else came of it, and there were newer, shinier horrors for mainstream media to turn the focus on.

I just had no idea that online, in the wild, worldwide web…there became a sort of cult following of her case.

True crime junkies, amateur internet sleuths trying to make a name for themselves, disgusting perverts and hateful trolls…

You name it.

They ate this shit up. Chiseled out a whole fucking corner of internet for all things Isobel Montgomery, where the girl I loved was now this…this vessel for fucked up fantasies masquerading as theories, and empty condolences for those who wanted to feel justified that they were using real-life horror as their primetime entertainment.

The worst part though? Aside from the lies and misinformation that I tried futilely to correct?—

No, it wasn't a purse they found. It was a broken heel from her shoe.

No, she wasn't out partying the night before. She was practicing.

No, the blood was proven to be not hers. We don't know whose it was. That info was kept from us.

She was seventeen, not sixteen.

No, it wasn't a vacation; it was a showcase for a prestigious music school that just so happened to take place at the hotel they were staying at.

No, the most aggravating thing to see was that there were people I knew in these Facebook groups and Reddit and Quora forums…people from this town who were using the fact they'd known her as some sort of ticket to the top.

The top of what? I don't fucking know.

And it didn't matter if they'd only spoken to her once, if at all. Suddenly, Izzy had all these friends who were so goddamn happy to impart their helpful knowledge of who she was as a person. Sharing stuff they had no fucking right sharing. Things like how when she was thirteen, she got her period in math class, and everyone saw the blood spot on her jeans.

And that's just the most recent one.

Andthe reason I'm currently sitting outside a police station.

I was there that day, in class, when it happened. Kids laughed and pointed, Zachary Reynolds being one of them, and the person behind username ZacRey22.

Yeah, not very fucking smart of him.

Izzy was humiliated when it happened. Wouldn't even come near me the rest of the day, until I finally cornered her at her house that evening—rode my bike over as soon as I could—and barged into her room and gave her no choice but to look me in the face as I told her I loved her for the first time.

Yeah, we were only thirteen. But I loved her. In all the ways I was capable of at that age, I fucking loved her. She was my girl. My frizzy-haired, firecracker of a girl with a heart of fucking gold. The girl who gave me piano and a second family and made my breaths quicken and my heart beat a little faster.

The girl who wouldn't hesitate kicking ass if the tables were turned, and some other girl was in her shoes.

She had nothing to be ashamed of. And I told her as much.

But now, here, years later, when she's…she's gone…people are digging up one of her most embarrassing moments? People we know…

And for what? Clout? Proof they knew her?

Fuck that noise.

She might not be aware of what they're saying, much less be here to defend herself, but I am. And like hell I'm going to let some nosy assholes profit off the only parts of her that remain. The only parts of her I can protect.

The memories.

"It's definitely broken," Gavin says from where he sits behind the wheel, drawing me back to the present. He's angled toward me, with my right wrist gently wrapped in his big hand as he inspects the bruised, swollen flesh of my knuckles. "I'll take you to the Urgent Care."

I say nothing, just turn away from him and return my hand to my chest, cradling it. It hurts like a bitch, but I savor the pain. Makes me remember how good it felt to beat that meathead's face in.

Gavin starts his truck, and gets us on the road.

"They're dropping the charges," he tells me after a moment. It's quiet, save for the rumbling diesel engine. He knows better at this point than to turn on the radio. I still avoid music when I can, but especially the radio. I don't want to hear a new song, and fall in love with it, knowing Izzy might never?—

Don't. Don't even think about it. You both can catch up when she comes home. Music. Movies. Everything.

Turning my head to look out the window, watching the world pass by, I remember Gavin spoke, and manage a short, "'kay."

"You're lucky."

I snort softly at that.

"I mean it, Mase. You broke the kid's nose. Could've done much worse if his buddy wasn't there to pull you off him. You're eighteen. You're lucky you didn't get slapped with assault charges. That shit stays on your record."

Would've been worth it.

A sigh fills the cab of the truck. "Kid, I know it's been rough but?—"

"But nothing," I say tightly. "The asshole deserved it. What he said on?—"

"Stay off the fucking internet." There's a tired edge to his voice. It's not the first time we've had this argument.

I twist my head around, staring hard at his profile. "But they're talking shit. Spreading lies, and-and talking about her like?—"

"I know," he says with a gruff sort of gentleness, cutting me off. His gaze flicks to mine, brow furrowed. "I know…but you can't go around punching every single one of them into shutting up. They're gonna talk, and they're gonna keep talking. It's what people do."

"It's not right."

He nods, facing the road. "No. It's not." Flicking the blinker, he takes the on-ramp onto the highway, leading us out of Shiloh. "But neither is punching the shit out of every dumbass who opens their mouth. Not only is it wrong, but it's impossible. This is a far bigger fight than you."

Clamping my teeth together, I throw my head back against the seat and stare unseeingly ahead.

"I think it's time you talk to someone."

Another common argument we have.

"Sure. When she comes back." One more thing to add to the list of things to catch up on…

"Mas—"

"There's nothing they can do for me right now," I say tightly. My body tenses on reflex, and an ache shoots up my right arm. Wincing, I squirm around, trying to get more comfortable. "There's just…this. There's just waiting."

The leather steering wheel creaks under his grip. "Mason, I'm worried."

Yeah, yeah, everyone's worried. What else is new?

I wish they wouldn't bother. It's just energy being wasted. How I cope while she's gone…it's not only temporary, but it's my problem. Mine. They need to just back off, and stop trying to shoulder this burden. I can take it…but I can't take it if I'm taking on their worries too.

My baggage quota is capped out.

"I'm fine," I force myself to say, gritting the words through my teeth. "I've been good all summer. I stopped drinking." Mostly. "Stopped partying. I…I've been better."

A heavy, pointed sort of silence fills the cab, before he finally speaks. "You rarely leave your room."

I go see Jeremy. Not that I say that out loud.

Sure, everyone knows he comes to see me—to check on me—just like Waylon sometimes does. Just like Gavin and Linda and even Reggie, when Mom's working and someone has to keep an eye on Phoebe…

And on me.

Apparently I'm no longer trusted to take care of my sister on my own.

"When's the last time you even saw Waylon?" Gavin asks.

Frowning, I look down, and try to recall. Last week…or was that last month?

Fuck, I can't remember.

"You're not the only one grieving here. He's?—"

Tension steels my spine, and I explode, "I'm not fucking grieving!" The words wrench out of me ragged and angry. "She's not dead. Don't say it like she is. Grief is for the dead, and she's not dead."

A beat passes, then, "Mason, it's been a ye?—"

"You think I don't know that?"

A year.

A year to the day today.

My throat squeezes, burning hot at the reminder. My vision blurs, and I roll my head to face the window, squeezing them so tight, it makes pain rocket down my arm. My hand's throbbing like a bitch and I relish it.

I sought out that nasty comment in the forum.

I was looking for someone to get pissed off at, someone local, someone I could actually retaliate against.

I can admit that much.

Who can fucking blame me?

It's been a whole goddamn year since Izzy was taken from us. I know what that means. I know what everyone's thinking—what everyone wants to say, but won't.

Well, that was until this very moment, when Gavin just had to go blow it all to shit.

But I refuse to even give it a second of my consideration. I refuse to even hear the words. Not when I still have Jeremy's assurances to rely on. Not when in my bones, in my gut, in my fucking veins…I know she's fucking out there somewhere.

As far as I'm concerned, without concrete proof that she's gone for good, there's still a fifty-fifty chance she's still alive, and those aren't numbers I'm willing to gamble on by giving up.

The thought of her out there, lonely, scared…hurt…

Thinking we all moved on—gave up on her…

It's enough to make me want to punch my broken hand through the passenger window.

I can't give up on her. I won't. Not ever. Not until I have no choice. Not until I see her lifeless body with my own two eyes, and there's no room left for doubt or denial.

"They're still looking," I say slowly, raggedly. "The FBI hasn't given up yet, so why the fuck should I?"

Silence follows my words, and carries all the way to the Urgent Care.

It's not until we park, and he kills the engine, that he says, "You're right. I'm sorry."

Jaw working, all I manage is a nod. I unbuckle my seatbelt, wincing as I maneuver it around my injured arm.

"But it doesn't mean you can go on like this," he says.

Our gazes meet across the cab.

He searches my eyes. "It might feel like life's on pause for you right now, and that's okay." He nods, and something in me relaxes at his words. "But what you do during this pause? There's no erasing it. When life starts up again, I don't want you to have burned it all to the ground. You get me?"

I suck in my cheeks, and nod.

"You're like a son to me, you know that, right?"

Nose and eyes burning, I nod. "Y-yeah."

Sniffing, he leans over and clasps the back of my head, gripping me tight. "You're not alone, Segar. And we love you. We're here for you, please don't forget that."

I open my mouth, close it, fumbling over the words trying to force their way out.

"I know," I finally say. Nodding rapidly, I say, "I just…I'm just tired."

His eyes crease, and his mouth disappears inside his beard.

"I keep expecting to wake up, and-and…" Sniffing, I turn and wipe my face on my bicep. "I don't care if it's a year or ten from now, I can't…I c-can't." My breaths begin to quicken, and the hand around my skull lowers, squeezing my nape.

"One breath in, one breath out. That's all you need to focus on for now. Okay?"

Eyes falling shut, I nod.

"And no more fights."

Grimacing, I nod…but the second I do, I feel it for the lie it is.

I can't promise that, any more than I can promise I'll wake up tomorrow and suddenly not feel like I'm dying inside. I just…I don't know. It comes in waves—pummeling me, dragging me down before I even realize what's happening.

This…this darkness inside me that consumes me.

One second, I'm okay. Things are…shitty, but bearable.

And the next, they're not. They're not bearable.

And it happens so fast, that shift—quicker than it takes me to hold my breath and count to five and talk myself down.

I'll be standing on solid ground, and then I'm drowning, caught up in a riptide I didn't see coming, not until it was too late.

There's no breaking free when this happens. All I can do is let go and see where it takes me, knowing that when all is said and done, and things finally calm down enough for me to get my bearings…

I'll just be worse off than I was before.

"I'll try," I whisper, meeting Gavin's pinched gaze. I shrug. "I'll try."

His eyes fall shut, and he nods, knowing that's all I'm capable of right now.

Day by day.

Breath by breath.

That's all I have.

Later that night—orrather, what feels like night—I wake up to a thudding against my door.

Bleariness clings to me from the painkillers I was prescribed, so it takes me a second longer than it should to orient myself to my surroundings. Shadows bathe my room, making it feel a lot later than the 6:35 blaring red at me from my digital alarm clock on the nightstand.

Another thud-thud against the door, and I realize I didn't imagine someone knocking.

"Come in," I grumble loud enough to be heard.

I flick on the lamp just as the door cracks open, and two figures slip into the room, closing the door behind them.

Sitting up, I go to run my fingers through sweaty hair, when something hard knocks into my face, and a twinge of pain shoots up my arm.

Plaster.

Right.

Broken hand.

"Nice, man," Waylon says in that sharp, sarcastic voice of his. "Lovin' the new accessory."

I flip him off with the middle finger of my good hand, just as Jeremy brushes past him, and rounds the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

Our gazes clash, and for a split second, as always, my lungs cease.

As if sensing the agony momentarily ripping through me, he hangs his head, letting his hair fall over his face. But he's always done that, so maybe it's just my own paranoia.

"What are you guys doing here?" I mutter, wincing when I try to scoot myself back against the headboard. I'm caked with sweat, my shirt sticking to me. Grimacing, I go to rip it off, when I hiss, remembering my injury.

Goddamnit.

Jeremy coughs, probably trying to hide a laugh. I ignore them both.

Growling, I bear through the pain, all but tearing the shirt the rest of the way off before whipping it across the room.

Waylon's slow-clapping, and in the corner of my eye, Jeremy's got his head bowed, fingers worrying at the ends of his hair.

I grunt. "Be useful and grab me a shirt, will you?"

Jeremy drops his hands and pushes off the bed, heading for my dresser.

Shit. "I wasn't talking to you," I call out, but he just ignores me and rifles through my dresser. I sigh.

"Why the fuck do you think we're here, asshole?" Waylon says, and the sound of a zipper, followed by a rustle of paper. Turning, I watch as he digs out a handle of vodka from a paper bag, one he'd stuffed inside his sweatshirt. "We're here to get shitfaced. Look, I even managed to snag your favorite. Vlad."

"Kind of you," I mutter dryly as he breaks the seal on the cap.

Jeremy returns to the bed, tossing me a black ball of fabric. I gather it up with my good hand—my non-dominant hand—squeezing until my knuckles turn white. Fuck.

A throat clears, then?—

"Here."

Jeremy says it so softly, it's not until he scoots over and takes the shirt from me, that it registers he even spoke at all.

Blowing out a breath, I nod a silent thanks as he shakes out the shirt, and eases my injured arm through the sleeve first, followed by my head, and then my good arm. The distinct sound of liquid glug-glugging as Waylon throws it back fills the otherwise silent room.

Staring blankly straight ahead, I sit forward, letting the fabric fall over my torso. Fingers brush my bare chest in the process, and my breath hitches, my gaze flying up to his as a fuzzy memory of him having done this before flashes across my mind.

His lips thin and he quickly pulls away, putting his back to me.

I glance down, taking in the Pearl Jam emblem stretched out across my chest. I didn't notice the writing when it was all rolled up, but on my back is a long list of tour dates and locations. Including the show Jeremy and I went to a couple years ago, a combined birthday present from our parents when we turned seventeen.

It was just Jeremy and me. He drove us, since he was the only one with a car at the time.

They weren't the best seats—far from it. We could barely make out the stage. But hell if we didn't have the best time ever. My chest aches now as I remember how even Jeremy sang along, belting out the words, jumping around, just as infected by the energy as I was.

He'd bought the same shirt. I wonder if he still has it.

Shifting around, I try to get comfortable, but it's as if all the blood in my body has rushed into my right hand, making it pulse and throb, bringing a fresh wave of chills to my clammy skin.

"Is this what they gave you?" Jeremy asks, and when I lift my gaze to find him inspecting the little orange prescription bottle, even through my fog, I don't miss the frown etched across his face.

"Yep," I say, and gesture for him to hand it over.

He cuts a look over at Waylon. "You probably shouldn't mix…"

"I'll only take one," I mutter, holding my hand out impatiently.

Lips pursed, he nods, and twists off the cap. It's only then that I remember I wouldn't have been able to do that.

"Thanks," I whisper when he hands me a pill. Tossing it in my mouth, I glance at Waylon and mumble with a wave of a hand, "Gimme that."

He hesitates for only a second, before extending it to me.

He got more ink, I can't help but notice. His shirt is rolled up enough to reveal not just the sprinkle of tattoos on his knuckles, but the newer additions disappearing up his arm. I wonder when he did that…

I wash the pill down with a searing gulp of vodka, drawing some of my body's awareness away from my throbbing hand. My eyes nearly roll back from the relief. When I sense the two of them watching me, their concern palpable, it only spurs me to take another gulp.

Nausea wells, but I fight it back, gritting my teeth, breathing harshly through my nose.

"Mase…"

"It's fine, Jer," I mutter, hanging my head and squeezing my eyes shut. My arm is killing me. Today sucks. I really don't need the fucking lecture.

But just when I think he's going to do just that, he surprises me.

"Can I have some?"

My eyes crack open, and through my lashes, I find him holding his hand out expectantly. His jaw is tight, and there's a dark sort of determined glint in his eyes that has me hesitating.

Why? I'm not really sure…

But his mouth thins, and something tells me he senses where my mind's going before I even realize it.

"I'm not a fucking child. Hell, I'm older than you, in case you forgot," he all but spits. "Hand it over."

Waylon snickers quietly at that, and I just blink at the unexpected hostility.

"Have you ever…"

Jeremy rolls his eyes, and leans across the bed, ripping the bottle from my hands. He mutters something under his breath that I can't quite make out—pretty sure I catch the word idiot though—and then he's bringing it to his mouth.

My brows arch as I watch him instantly start choking and gasping.

Waylon sighs. "Ah, a virgin."

The look he gets for that is downright terrifying.

Rolling my lips together, I hold back a laugh as Jeremy buries his mouth in his fist, trying not to hurl. Meanwhile, his gaze is narrowed into a slitted glare, one he easily shifts from Waylon to me when a tiny snicker escapes.

Ah, that was quick, I think as warmth shoots through my veins, making my limbs feel all buzzy and heavy.

I don't think I ate today, so that's probably why.

Oops.

Jeremy lowers his hand from his mouth, and I don't miss the way his throat bobs with a hard gulp.

"Way, did you?—"

"Right here," he says, tossing me a bottle of OJ. It lands on my lap.

I hand it to Jeremy, watching as he uncaps it. "It'll go down better with a chaser."

"You don't chase it with anything," he grumbles.

"Yeah, well, I've had practice."

Rolling his eyes, he accepts the bottle, and takes a big gulp. Waylon goes to take the vodka from where he squeezes it between his thighs, but Jeremy shakes his head, and uses his free hand to bring it to his mouth.

I laugh. "You're supposed to do it after."

He manages to flip me the finger as he glugs back more of the liquor. Thrusting it at Waylon, he washes it down with the juice, draining nearly half the small bottle.

"Good thing I brought more," Waylon says dryly, mouth hovering over the lip of the bottle.

Our eyes meet, and he shrugs. "Bottoms up."

When I wake,it's late. I don't even have to look at the clock to know.

The house is silent, and the room is dark, save for a sliver of moonlight coming from the window.

Soft snores sound from somewhere on the floor, and I roll my head, squinting through the darkness until I manage to make out the body sprawled out on the carpet, right next to the bed.

Waylon.

Red light coming from the alarm clock next to my head glints off the bottle tucked against his chest, and a small, rueful smile curls my lip. I try to remember if we finished it…

Honestly, I don't think I got more than a few shots' worth down before the Vicodin knocked me the fuck out.

Speaking of which…

My arm throbs something fierce, the pain meds having worn off.

I roll my head the other way, somehow not surprised at all to find Jeremy there, curled up on his side, facing me, with his cheek smushed against his hand, mouth slackened.

His lashes flutter over his cheeks, and I wonder what he's dreaming about.

I hope it's something good.

My chest tightens, and I drag my gaze past him to where my pills sit on the nightstand next to his head. I look between him and the drugs, and wince, sending out a silent apology.

"Jeremy?" I murmur quietly, squeezing his shoulder with my good hand.

Nothing. Not even a grunt or a groan.

I swallow hard, and look longingly over at the bottle. I glance over my shoulder, in the direction of where Waylon's passed out on the floor, and inhale harshly. "Okay, then," I mutter.

Mashing my molars, I carefully, gently ease myself up into a seated position.

Fuck, I grit silently into the room as I throw a leg over a sleeping Jeremy, making it so I'm straddling his bent legs. Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath, using every muscle I've got to hold my balance so I don't go crashing down on my injured hand as I lean over and swipe the small orange bottle from the nightstand.

I'm just about to flop myself back over onto my side, when Jeremy mumbles something in his sleep, and a second later, rolls onto his back.

My eyes bulge as I lose my balance, and careen forward. I have just enough wherewithal to keep my right arm elevated and out of the way when I crash down on Jeremy, face-planting the pillow next to his head.

He wakes with a startled oomph, and hands clutch my back on instinct.

"Wh-what?" he says groggily.

Despite having somehow managed to not crush my already crushed hand, pain rockets through my body, momentarily blackening my vision. A ringing fills my ears, and all I can do is clench my teeth through a strained, pained scream that I bury deep into the pillow.

"Mason?" a confused, sleepy voice says near my ear. "What are you…"

"Hurts," I manage to grunt. In my good hand, the pill bottle digs grooves into my palm.

"Oh. Oh, shit," he breathes, and then he's gently helping me sit up, taking care not to jostle my arm. It hurts like a bitch, but we manage, and I fall back on my ass…

Which just so happens to be on his thighs.

Grimacing, I ignore him and lift the pill bottle, and?—

Fuck.

"Here," Jeremy says, and I don't miss how thick, almost strangled his voice is.

I hold up my weight as best I can so I don't cut off his circulation.

My hand is shaking like a fucking leaf when he pries the bottle from my grip. It takes him a second longer than it should to open, and through the shadows, I can just make out the harsh pale line of his jaw, and the jut of his chin.

"T-two," I stutter out.

A beat, then, "Sure?"

I nod. "Mhm."

A second later, a hand finds mine, and two little pills land in the center of my quivering palm.

I immediately toss them into my mouth, swallowing them dry.

"I, uh, I think I drank all the orange juice."

All I can do is nod, eyes sealing shut.

A long, awkward moment passes, and I try not to squirm. Nor do I miss how eerily still he is beneath me. So still, I could almost imagine it's not his thighs under my ass, but the mattress.

"Sorry," I eventually mutter, and go to climb off him.

"S'okay," he says faintly, wiggling over to give me room.

I grit my teeth, and carefully turn to sit on the mattress, scooting down onto my back. Panting like I just ran a mile, I stare up at the ceiling. Sweat breaks over my skin, and I shiver, though I don't feel cold.

I feel hot.

Scalding hot.

"Um, Waylon…is he…"

"On the floor next to me."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I don't remember falling asleep."

"Yeah, alcohol will do that." A pause, then, "Me neither."

A weak, quiet laugh trickles into my ear. "Yeah, you didn't last long."

"This shit is good," I say, feeling a smile lift my mouth.

Again, he chuckles, but this time it fades pretty quick, replaced with a sort of pointed, heavy silence.

"You'll be careful, right? Vicodin…it's really addictive."

Swallowing thickly, I roll my head toward him. Like me, he's still on his back, face angled toward me. Our eyes meet, and I don't miss the worry shining back at me from his glimmering pupils.

"Yeah," I breathe. "Of course."

His gaze darts between mine. "Okay," he whispers. "I trust you."

And just like that, a maw of shame opens up inside me.

Because…he shouldn't.

He shouldn't trust me.

I don't even trust me anymore.

How can I, especially now, when there's this delicious buzzing in my fingers, and warmth shooting through my veins, and I feel so heavy, so relaxed, like I could sink into this mattress and never feel the need to come back up for air.

I open my mouth, but close it, and instead strain my ears, ensuring Waylon's still asleep before I speak.

"Do you still feel her?"

Jeremy's face tightens, and he averts his gaze, lashes blooming shadows over his pale, moonlit cheeks.

"Jeremy?" I say, his name hitching ever so slightly. Even through the deepening Vicodin-infused haze that is slowly, but surely, pulling me into its warm embrace…

I hear it.

Feel it.

The cord of panic that rises inside me, plucked by ruthless fingers, reverberating through every bone, joint, and nerve.

Say it. Say it, please fucking say it.

"Yes," he tells me.

And like always, I inhale that word like it's the very oxygen I need to keep going. Caging it deep inside my chest for as long as I can bear before releasing the air that carried it. And the reverberations quiet, fading into stillness once more.

Rolling away from me, Jeremy murmurs quietly into the room, "Night, Mason."

My mouth opens, but whatever was about to come out gets choked back.

Instead, I simply say, "Night," and close my eyes.

And I give into the lull of the painkillers as they carry me into a heavy, bottomless, dreamless sleep.