We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.

I always have someplace else I’d rather be, even if I don’t know where that is, yet.

Sometimes broken things heal crooked. The pieces didn’t fit anymore.

My heart should be breaking, too, but there comes a point when you’re so inured to loss that you no longer feel the lash.

You could miss someone, but it did no good to fixate on loss. I wished I had the ready words of a Breeder or the ability to comfort with a soft touch. I didn't. Instead I had daggers and determination. That would have to do.

His reply offers infinite solace in a single word. Always.

After people have gone, you forget their faults, and you recall the ideal more than the person.