#agoldengalaxy

In truth, "those bastards" had only targeted Charles, at least at first. Their lips had been curling the second he stepped through the swinging double doors of the saloon, cold gazes fixed on him with a brand of distaste so familiar he rarely paid it any mind anymore. If they kept to their own business, then so would he.

Of course, his luck couldn't be that good. This particular group of men seemed to take an exceptional degree of offense to his presence in "their" establishment, and it wasn't long before they sidled up to the bar on either side of him and Arthur, casting dirty looks their way between every shot of whiskey. Charles sighed, prepared to simply pay his tab and go. Their hunting trip had been more than successful, both horses' saddlebags stuffed full of game to bring back for the stew pot. That was more than enough of a reward for him; a buzz and a bellyful of this rotgut certainly weren't worth a brawl or a shootout.

But before he could make it to the door, one of the group decided to take matters into his own hands. As Charles walked past, he stuck out a leg to try and trip him; would have succeeded, too, had Charles not already been expecting something like that to happen and moved out of the way. Arthur's hackles were up instantly, but Charles gave a minute shake of his head and a pointed look from the corner of his eye: Don't. He kept walking, head high, shoulders squared, and jaw clenched.

He'd just laid his palm on the door to push it open when the youngest and cockiest of them decided Charles needed to be given a new nickname on his way out.

Arthur's fist knocked out three of the bastard's tobacco-stained teeth before he could even get the entire word past his lips.

After that, everything predictably dissolved into chaos. It was a pretty standard bar fight, all things considered, and each of them held their own pretty well - at least until Arthur somehow got himself thrown through the front window and out into the barely-solid mass of muck that called itself a street. Charles, who couldn't care less about finishing this pointless fight, leapt after him, whistling for the horses as he plucked Arthur out of the mud. He hauled them both into Taima's saddle, uncaring of the absolute filth that now coated him too, and fired a few warning shots over one shoulder to discourage any of them from pursuing before beating a hasty retreat.

They'd made it out alive, but not without injury, which left Charles - not for the first time - cleaning up a mess created by his partner's well-meaning but misplaced attempts at chivalry.

"I'm sorta impressed, in a way," Arthur continued, a crooked grin pulling at his split lip and wrinkling the corner of his unblackened left eye. "Didn't think any o' those fellers were even strong enough to pick me up, let alone put me through a window."

Charles shook his head, lips thinning in displeasure as he extracted another piece of glass from Arthur's bicep. "There shouldn't have been any reason for them to try. I had things under control. This ain't my first time in a saloon, Arthur, I can handle myself just fine."

"'Course you can, Charlie, I know that. But I couldn't just let 'em stand there and talk about you that way right in front of me!"

"They weren't saying anything I haven't heard a thousand times before."

"That don't make it right!"

"Of course it doesn't, you fool," he snapped impatiently, fixing the older man with a glare. "But I'm not gonna risk my life, or yours, trying to fight every sad, bitter drunk who calls me a name I don't like. It accomplishes nothing, except to prove to them that everything they already think about me is true. It's not a hill I'm willing to die on, and I also don't need you trying to die on it for me."

A pregnant pause lingered between them, the silence broken only by Arthur's stifled grunts of pain and the quiet plinking of the bloodied glass chips Charles dropped into the bowl by his knee. Then, in a fragile voice, he whispered, "Watching you get yourself hurt for me will never feel like victory, Arthur."

After a few tense minutes, Arthur breathed out a long sigh through his nose, looking up at Charles from beneath the brim of his worn gambler hat. "Hell, Charles, I'm sorry. Ain't ever meant to cause you more trouble, or make you worry. But I still did, so... 'm sorry." His right hand slipped into Charles's left, squeezing gently. "I can't say I agree, or really even understand," he added slowly, chewing carefully on his words before he spat them out. "But... if that's how you feel, I'll respect it."

Charles had felt himself tense as soon as Arthur began speaking, bracing himself for an argument he absolutely did not want to have, but released his held breath when he realized that wasn't where this conversation was headed. "Thank you," he answered, a relieved smile pulling up the corners of his lips as he squeezed Arthur's hand back. "That's all I ask."

"Just so you know, though, I'd do it again. If you asked me to, I mean," Arthur amended quickly, when he saw the reproachful look Charles started to turn his way. "You're worth being thrown out a window for, Mr. Smith."

Charles let out a startled bark of laughter at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he shook his head fondly. This man, this crazy, infuriating, wonderful man... What would he do without him?

Once she was hitched, he headed up the steps and opened the creaky door, finding the store empty. “Hello?” he called, eyes scanning around for any sign of the clerk. He decided to let himself in, figuring he must be taking a smoke break or something, and began looking around, grabbing some of the things he needed. Rations, horse pills, tobacco. He went to the desk, placing them all down, and opened his mouth to call out again when something caught his eye.

A picture hung up on the wall behind the cashier’s desk, making Jack’s heart stop. It was the old gang. He could even see his own tiny face in the photo, standing happily beside his mother. He’d thought that John had killed the remaining gang members, yet this photo was here, proving them wrong. Had Bonnie lied about the shopkeeper? Who was he?

The door behind the desk swung open. “Sorry to keep you waitin’, friend, I was -”

An older man appeared, stopping in his tracks like a terrified deer. Jack blinked back. He looked familiar. 

God, he looked familiar.

“John?” The man asked, his brows furrowing, his eyes shining a little. “But…Miss MacFarlane…she said you -”

“Sorry, friend. I ain’t John.” Speaking his father’s name felt so foreign on his tongue. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “We…um…we must have met. A very long time ago.”

Jack watched the gears slowly turn in the man’s head, following his gaze toward the photo up on the wall. The man blinked once, twice, then gasped. “No…Jack?!” When he nodded, the man regarded him as if he was looking at a ghost. “Oh…Lord above. You’re all grown.”

“Yes, sir.” He smiled a little, leaning against the counter. “And I reckon we haven’t seen each other in fifteen years. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t very good…”

“Oh!” The man shook his head a little, reaching to grab the first thing on the counter that he could. “Oh, yeah. You was so young, of course…” Clearing his throat, he began scanning. “My name’s Pearson. I was…I was the cook.”

Suddenly, Jack remembered.

“Pssst. Jack. Here.” Pearson knelt down to his level, holding out a golden pear with a wide smile. “It’s the last one. I want you to have it.”

Jack gasped, reaching out to take the fruit with a slight confused smile. “Why?”

“You deserve somethin’ sweet more than all of us. Just don’t tell Uncle Bill, he’ll be sad I gave it to you instead of him.” Pearson winked, and Jack grinned, thanking him profusely.

Jack blinked, standing up straight. “I…remember. I remember you.”

Pearson’s eyes began watering as he continued to scan. “I’m glad to hear it. I never stopped thinking about everyone.”

“…Mrs. Adler is well. She’s living just outside Armadillo. A-And Charles is in Canada. He’s got a wife and kid now.” He couldn’t imagine how tough it must have felt, to have the gang, a family, suddenly disappear like mist through his fingers. “How are you, Mr. Pearson?”

“I’m glad to hear all that…” He paused for a moment, perhaps to collect himself, then pulled his gaze upward. “Happy, I think,” he said softly. “Got married a few years back. Working here has been good. The MacFarlanes’ are good folk. It’s just different.”

Pearson finished scanning in silence, and Jack gave him the money and placed things in his bag. “It was really nice to see you,” he said, genuinely. “I’ll come visit again.”

The man gave a watery smile. “I’d like that. Come visit me any time.”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack returned the smile, and headed out the door, greeted by the bright afternoon sun. He held a hand up to shield his eyes, happy to know he had another friend at the MacFarlane ranch.

***

South of Armadillo sat a beautiful park bustling with people. The first real warm day of the year, the trees rustled with the breeze and the sky was almost dazzlingly blue without a single cloud to dull it. Jack surveyed it all from a distance, remembering Charles’ family as he watched happy children run around while their parents talked on the bench.

Glancing across the park, he noticed a couple sitting on a bench together, his arm around her shoulders. She was laughing, and two children were playing with a frisbee right near them. Jack’s heart skipped a beat. She looked so familiar, he just knew that he was supposed to know her.

When she turned her head, he quickly turned his away, not wanting to be caught staring. He closed his eyes, trying to remember if he saw this woman in Pearson's photo. Instead, a blurry memory resurfaced, one that filled his entire heart with dread.

“Jack. Be brave, son. I’m gonna go get your Momma.”

The horse took off. Jack held onto its neck, squeezing his eyes shut while the woman guided it away from the forest. He didn’t dare speak, he didn’t dare move, he just held on until the horse slowed down. The woman behind him slid off the saddle, holding her hands up toward him.

“We’re here, Jack. You don’t gotta worry. Arthur will be here, and he’ll bring your Momma safe and sound.”

He opened his eyes, looking down at the woman below. She was young. Her voice had shaken a little as she spoke, but her face was steel. He leaned into her arms, and she slowly lifted him down from the horse, but didn’t let go of him yet. He buried his face in her chest, trying not to cry. “I’m scared, Miss Tilly.”

Her embrace tightened a little, smoothing down his hair. “I know, honey. I am too.”

Jack blinked the stinging out of his eyes, standing up to walk right over to the bench where she was sitting. “‘Scuse me. Don’t mean to bother you, but I believe we’ve met before, ma’am.”

The man frowned, looking toward his wife, who looked at Jack as if he were a ghost. Slowly, she stood up, looking him up and down, perhaps trying to process. “...Is it really you, Jack?” she whispered, barely audible.

A relieved sigh escaped his lips as he nodded, taking his hat off to greet her properly. “Yes, ma’am. It’s so good to see you again, Miss Tilly.”

She gasped, a hand flying over her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes. “Oh! And you remember!” Assuring her husband she would fill him in in just a moment, she looped her arm through Jack’s and they began walking. “My goodness. You’ve really grown. Last I saw you, you was barely the size of my knee.”

“I know.” He smiled softly, looking her over. She still looked just as young as he remembered, but happier. “You seem well.”

“Oh, I’m very well.” She smiled giddily. “My William is just so wonderful. And those two little ones over there are mine. I never could have imagined a life like this.” They stopped walking for a moment, watching William teach his young son how to throw the frisbee farther, while their daughter climbed up onto his back. Jack chuckled while Tilly turned her gaze back to him. “How are you? I heard that John…”

Jack nodded, hating to be the one to always give the news. “He was killed a few years back. I buried Ma almost two months ago.”

Taking a shaky breath, Tilly placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m real sorry. Those detectives had always been the scum of the Earth. Heard they was braggin’ about using your Pa, then killed him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He looked at her. “They won’t hurt me, or you. I took care of it.”

The words seemed to have the opposite effect of what he wanted, making her a little uneasy. “Oh, Jack. You’re still so young. To carry this burden…”

“Everyone has somethin’ to carry,” he grumbled, knowing that no one in that damn gang ever had a chance at peace. Why shouldn’t he have killed Ross? He pulled his arm away from her. “You should get back to your family.”

Immediately, he felt guilty as her eyes brimmed again. She hesitated, then leaned forward, pulling him into a hug. “Be well, Jack. I’ll be thinking of you.”

He slowly returned the hug, aware of how she seemed to melt into it. “You too, Miss Tilly. This ain’t goodbye.”

She held on a bit tighter, and he was reminded of that terrible day where they held each other, waiting, waiting, waiting.

***

“Did ya hear? Leslie Dupont is in Armadillo. But nobody knows what she looks like!”

“I wish I knew. I love her books. If I were her, I’d wanna let everyone know it was me.”

Jack walked past two strangers, but paused for a moment, turning over his shoulder. “Leslie Dupont?” he asked, tilting his head at the woman who spoke first. “Ain’t she the one who wrote The Lady of the Manor?”

The woman gasped, nodding. “Never woulda thought a man like you’d read something like that. That was one of her first.”

“My Pa bought it long ago. It was a very good story.” He looped his thumbs through his belt. “I would like to meet Ms. Dupont.”

The second woman scoffed. “So would I, but good luck findin’ her. She’s more secretive than Gaptooth Ridge. Dupont ain’t even her real name.”

Jack tilted his hat in their direction, then continued on walking, his gaze scanning Armadillo. There wasn’t even any guarantee that she would be here. He knew he ought to just keep going, but first, he stepped into the telegraph office. Producing a letter from his bag, he placed it gently on the counter. “Here you are. From a man named Sam Odessa. Please see it gets delivered safely to his poor wife.”

The man behind the counter nodded solemnly, taking it from him, and Jack turned away, exhaling. As he began walking toward his horse, he had the strangest feeling he was being watched. Looking around, he located a woman sitting outside the train station, an open book on her lap and sporting a slack jaw. For some reason, Jack was drawn to her, and carefully, he headed up the stairs.

“Are you alright, ma’am? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I might as well have,” she breathed, getting to her feet to look him over. “You look just like an old friend of mine, is all.”

Jack raised his brows. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Mary-Beth,” she breathed. “Mary-Beth Gaskill.”

Only one tent was still lit at this time of night. Jack slowly crawled over to it, peeking his head inside, where he found Mary-Beth scribbling away at a piece of paper. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and her brows furrowed with concern.

“Jack? It’s late. What are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep…”

“Oh, sweet boy,” she murmured, gesturing for him to come closer. He did. “Would you like to hear a story I’m writing?”

Jack beamed excitedly. “Oh, yes!”

Her soft voice spun tales of wonder that made his eyelids feel heavy. He didn’t get to hear the ending.

Swallowing, Jack smiled slightly. “Well, my name’s Jack, Miss Mary-Beth.”

Shock and recognition all rolled into one on her face. She dropped the book on the floor in her haste to hug him. “Jack! Jack Marston! Oh, you’ve grown so tall! Look at you!”

He chuckled, returning the hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you!” She pulled away, beaming brightly. “Sweet boy. I’ve missed you. You look just like your father.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jack tried a smile, tilting his head. “How ya been?”

Mary-Beth bent down to pick up her book, closing it carefully while she spoke. “Good! I been good! Still on my own, but it ain’t so bad. I’ve been writing so many stories…” she lowered her voice. “Been publishin’ ‘em under the name Leslie Dupont.”

His jaw dropped. “You’re Ms. Dupont?” he whispered, his heart skipping a beat. “So that’s how Pa got that book. I read The Lady of the Manor a whole buncha times!”

Blushing a little at the compliment, she smiled. “You always did like stories, like me.”

“I remember,” he said softly, like he was just as surprised as she was. “I remember you reading to me.”

Tears filled her eyes, but none fell. “That was when it was just a dream. I never thought it would come true.”

“I’m glad it did, Miss Mary-Beth.”

Wiping her eyes, she placed a hand on his shoulder to give him a smile. “I have to get going. But I’ll write to you, Jack. I promise.”

“This ain’t goodbye,” he agreed, returning the smile. She squeezed his shoulder, then headed down the Armadillo path, leaving him alone but with a sense of peace.

***

Jack rode past Blackwater. He’d only gone a few times. When he was younger, Abigail and John would always exchange wary looks when Blackwater was brought up, and he never knew why. They didn’t tell him, and if it had something to do with the gang, he couldn’t remember it.

He was sure it had something to do with Uncle Dutch, but even the man’s face was barely a distant memory. He remembered he had large hands that would pat his head. He remembered hearing him raise his voice in distress often, quickly putting on a smile the second Uncle Hosea placed a hand on his arm, reminding him that Jack was around. 

All of those men were blurry memories. John wanted to forget that life so badly that he never talked about them, and Jack was too young to remember.

But Charles talked about it when he asked. Jack asked about Bill and Javier. He asked about Dutch and Hosea. He even asked about Micah, and Charles, although he clearly felt a lot of resentment toward that man, answered his questions.

When he asked about Arthur, Charles’ breath seemed to leave his body.

“He was a good man. He’d tell you he wasn’t, but he was.”

Charles talked the most about Arthur, and Jack let him. He wanted to know about him. All he could really remember was the smell of smoke, a gentle but calloused hand on the shoulder, fishing together. He was not unlike a brother to John. That was why he had always been Uncle Arthur.

“How did he die, Charles?”

“…Tuberculosis. But if it weren’t for him, your father wouldn’t have been able to make it back to you. I was helping the nearby tribe, but everyone else in the gang turned on the two of them because of Micah’s influence on Dutch. There must have been some big fight on the mountain. When I got there a few days later, Arthur was laying alone, blue and dusted with light snow.”

Jack couldn’t help but reach out and touch Charles’ shoulder, knowing how tough it was to come across a loved one in that way. He went on to say that he buried him atop a mountain, facing the west, because it was what he would have loved.

Now, as he rode his horse up the trail, Jack turned his gaze up to the sky. Gold swirls danced among the clouds, making it a beautiful sunset. What he was doing here, he wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t believe that people who were dead could still hear them. Maybe it was just because he felt like he should see it, just once.

When he reached the top, he slid off of the saddle, glancing up at the small hut nearby as he began walking toward the peak. There, exactly where Charles said it was, was a grave. Its wood faded with the many years it had withstood the weather, he had to kneel down to read the words painstakingly etched into it. 

Arthur Morgan. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

A small bluejay landed atop the wood, pecking at it. Jack exhaled slowly, sitting cross-legged in the dew-covered grass beneath him.

“I wish I could remember you,” he whispered, feeling stupid the moment the words left his lips. He groaned at himself, wondering what had gotten into him. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had to pull himself together.

The bluejay tilted its head back and forth jerkily, like it was listening for something. Jack sighed and closed his eyes, trying to scrounge up something other than the blurry fishing trip.

He sat on the ground, picking listlessly at the grass when footsteps approached. Jack looked up, the man blocking out the sun with his frame, a complete shadow. His voice was gentle despite the obvious gruff that he always had. “Hey, kid. You okay?”

“I’m okay, Uncle Arthur. I just miss home.”

“I know. It ain’t easy livin’ out here like this.” Arthur stepped out from in front and instead took a seat on the ground beside him, grunting a bit with the effort. “Where’s your Ma?”

“Sleeping. She ain’t feeling good.”

Arthur nodded, taking his hat off to spin between his fingers. “Y’know, Jack, you’re real tough. Tougher than any of us.”

Frowning, he looked up. “What? What do you mean?”

“We chose this life, but you, you didn’t get a choice. It ain’t easy, but you’re a real soldier, just like in one of them storybooks you like.” Arthur paused, then turned to place his hat on Jack’s head. It fell over his eyes, which made Jack giggle. “Ha! Look at that. A perfect fit.”

“Uncle Arthur!” he giggled, reaching up to pull it off his eyes so he could see him. “It’s too big!”

Arthur’s brows shot up, a grin pulling at his lips. “Too big? Where’d you get an idea like that?”

Quick footsteps approached. “Arthur Morgan, you get that hat off my son this instant!”

Arthur chuckled, taking the hat back. “Sorry, Abigail. Just havin’ a little fun with him, is all.” He turned to Jack, winking. “See ya later, kid.”

Jack opened his eyes slowly, reaching up to take off his hat. It was all scuffed, old - it belonged to John, but if his memory served correctly, it looked a lot like Arthur’s.

He turned his gaze toward the wood, watching the bluejay flit its wings for a moment before taking off, flying toward the setting sun. Not quite sure why, Jack smiled and stood up, walking back toward his horse. He looked over his shoulder one more time.

“Goodbye, Uncle Arthur.”

Jack mounted his horse, hoping that wherever they were, Arthur was taking care of his parents.

***

The horizon was bathed with pink by the time Jack’s horse trotted up the familiar path. The sunrise already felt warm on his skin as he glanced up at the hill by the barn. The three graves stood both proud and haphazard, because they were made with shaky, bloody hands. Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

He could feel Abigail’s hand on his shoulder, telling him he was growing into a fine boy. He could hear John proudly praising him for his first hunt. Both of their voices told him they loved him. As a tear slid down his cheek, Jack smiled and opened his eyes.

Carefully, he slid off of the saddle and hitched his horse, feeding her some oats from his palm. The ranch wasn’t much of a ranch anymore. He had no animals and no help, but maybe, someday, he could be like his parents. Maybe, someday, he could be like Charles, and have a family of his own here.

For now, he supposed, visiting every now and then wouldn’t be so bad.

Dragging his feet a bit, he tiredly ascended the steps, but before he could enter he found an envelope stuck on the bottom of the door. He bent down, curiously taking it into his hands. His brows furrowed as he shouldered the door open, sticking a finger beneath the seal of the envelope. Still looking down, he slowly moved to sit on the couch where he had once spent countless afternoons reading.

He pulled out a letter, and a small picture fell onto his lap as he did. Between two fingers, he picked up the photo, pleasantly surprised to find it was a picture of Charles, Alice, and Morgan, smiling brightly with a newborn in Alice’s arms. Jack smiled, too, and turned to read the letter.

Dear Jack,

I hope your return home was a safe one. I know it’s unlikely you’ll be back to Beecher’s Hope, but in case you do go back, I had this delivered there. I wanted to let you know that our son was born the day after you left. You are welcome to visit whenever you want. Morgan won’t stop asking about you. It seems you have quite the gift for talking to children.

Alice is well. She sends her regards and hopes that you will come and meet our little John soon. It’s a fine name. It’s a strong name. We both like it. We hope you do too.

Your friend,

Charles Smith

Jack’s hands shook a little as he lowered the letter, but for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like crying. Instead, he picked up the photo, slowly getting up from the couch, and put it on top of the fireplace, proudly on display. He looked into the eyes of each happy family member, looked at baby John’s chubby fist reaching up toward his mother, and gave a watery smile.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood and stared, but eventually his feet moved him into his old bedroom, where it looked like nothing had changed at all. His bookshelf was intact, his bed was unmade. He lay down, watching the early morning sun pour in through the window. For some reason, now, the house didn’t seem so empty. He pulled his hat down over his face and closed his eyes.

Esther slowly let go of his wrist, lifting her arm so that her hand hovered just above the water. It rippled over and over for a few seconds, and when it cleared, Eddie realized with a jolt that he was looking down into his old apartment. On the couch sat Charlie, his face screwed up in concentration, drawing something on his tablet.

Emotions consumed him all at once, his breath leaving his body in a whoosh. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him, even as Esther began speaking again.

“This is Charlie Ross, right now, at this very moment. He is your friend, right?”

His mouth moved before he could think. “My best friend.”

“He was the one who helped you move on?”

Eddie nodded, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. He wondered if he dove headfirst into the lake, would he land beside Charlie again, the place where he truly belonged?

Before he could make a move, Charlie glanced up, looking toward the door of the apartment, and the lake rippled. Charlie disappeared. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat again and he hopped to his feet, unsure of what to do with himself. “H-Hey. Hey! Bring him back. Bring him back!” His voice steadily got louder until he caught the look on her face. He took a shaky breath. The next word was barely a whisper. “Please.”

Esther rose to her feet, gently taking both of Eddie’s hands into her own. He let her. “Have you ever wondered why he was the only one who could see you?” His heart still racing, he nodded. “Your souls are intertwined, Eddie. Some way or another, you were always destined to meet. You were destined to be together.”

The implications of the words nearly made his knees give out. “So, what, I’ve been gay this whole time?” He meant it as somewhat of a joke, but his tone was quiet and unsure. It didn’t feel like it, but he did like getting to make Charlie laugh the way he used to make Jessica laugh…

She smiled patiently. “It’s entirely up to you the way that you interpret it. You love Jessica. You also love Charlie. How you label, or do not label, that love is up to you.”

Suddenly he didn’t feel so good. Jessica’s guardian angel was even scarier than she was, and that was saying something. “What…what the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he breathed, some of the anger returning as he pulled his hands away from her to run them through his hair. “Why would you tell me this now? None of it matters! I’ll never see him again!”

“Of course it matters. It always matters,” Esther said gently. “I said you are destined to be together in some way or another. Considering your situation, then, it only makes sense that you will become Charlie’s guardian angel. You may visit him whenever you like, as long as you fulfill your duties.”

Eddie paused. The mere possibility of that sentence was enough to make his legs give out. He fell to his knees, slowly looking up at her. “I can do that?”

“Yes. And I can make it official. Just say the word.”

His brain cleared of fog. He breathed. He could see Charlie again, hear his laugh, smell the shitty cologne from his shirt. “Please…I’ll do anything.”

The grass crunched beneath her feet as she stepped closer, gently placing her hand over his head. “Lay down and close your eyes. Breathe, Eddie.”

Wordlessly, he did as he was told. He waited. Suddenly, the grass tickling his arms disappeared. The quiet laughter was replaced with muted voices. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was laying on his old couch. Sitting in front of him were Charlie and Sam - on the tablet was a comic drawn about his funeral. Nearly vibrating with excitement, Eddie propped himself up onto his elbow, blowing on Charlie’s ear. By the time he turned around, and they locked eyes, everything felt right again.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Hey, buddy!”

Charlie smiled, a look of fond disbelief on his face. “Eddie, what are you doing here?!”

Eddie grinned back.