#sam pines

HI HI OKAY HI.

some background info on this world; ~700-1000 years in the future. cyberpunk dystopia. almost all of the world is a desert, with only one city of mutated humans remaining. nuevo. these humans main survival adaptation is their ability to survive the slight remaining radiation from the nuclear apocalypse that happened, as well as their ability to drink saltwater, but they have powers too. the city has been divided into three “levels”, all built vertically on top of each other.

the lower levels are a cyberpunk undercity type place, with crime both violent and harmless running wild due to the lack of the hero society’s influence here (i’ll talk about them in a seperate post, but unfortunately to convey it simply, imagine the heroes from mha if they were basically the fbi and the cia at the same time and also even more corrupt and like. paying off the villains to kill people)

. the middle levels are basically solarpunk aesthetic with none of the e benefits of solarpunk, vaguely-futuristic nyc. think spider-verse earth 1610 for what daily life is like, just a lot more future-y.

upper levels are where the hero society mainly influences, the city in the sky. the RICH people live here. generally if you’re up here you’ve got ties to the hero society or the government, or you just work here and live in the middle levels.

NOW. this is my precious son leo grayson arnaud. vigilante name red noise. bisexual transmasc disaster/professional enabler older brother/part time wannabe wine aunt. he is sad and pathetic and here for a bad time, not a long time. (*cough cough* leo-grayson-arnaud.carrd.co check it out if it still works)

he’s a vigilante!!! he’s awesome!!!! he’s a boyfailure!!!!!! he’s cool as fuck!!!!!!

some info: he’s deaf! his powers let him control sound waves, so he uses them to be really fucking loud so he can utilize noise to electricity to electrocute people with the power of punk rock, but uh…. (garfield meme here) you are not immune to power drawbacks. safe to say, he’s lost most of his hearing. he was also raised the cyberpunk equivalent of a catholic lol? but it’s more akin to like,,, the legal religion from the silt verses than anything. he’s also got an AWESOME boyfriend

(the cowgirl in the second image is @the-lonelyshepherd’s oc shay. if you’re reading this and don’t know her, check her out!!! she’s cool and shep’s stories are so awesome)

this is sam pines. my BOY. fellow disaster tboy, professional hunter noceda relater-to. absolute poor little meow meow. he’d probably like mother mother but he doesn’t even HAVE a mother mother, carrion bird motif, “my guilt does not purify me” ass.

(the flower clasp is only part of his design while he’s in the cult.)

anyway he’s a born and raised lower level kid. he was abandoned by his mother (DO NOT THINK SHE WAS BAD FOR THIS. it was her only option) and grew up in the foster system until he was nine. at that age he was roped into a cult known as the sentinels. (ill go more in depth with them in another post too) they promised him food and shelter, and he needed it, so he took it. over time he was made to be a soldier for them.

he’s basically a prophet for the sentinels? of sorts. it’s very confusing and strange because it’s a Cult and that’s how they are but yeah. he does get out eventually but it’s more “outcast as a heretic and hunted down and almost killed and then saved by the leader because she thinks he’ll be useful if he still has some devotion left”

The star was there again.

His brightness had faded slightly, enough that she could see beyond the glow – not that it helped much. In the fashion of dreams, he was many things: a shining orb, a child, a wisp cradled in black wings, the man in the apple tree.

And he was Sam. And Sam was him, and had been all along. Or something?

She waited for rage to flare, but all her anger had burnt out, leaving her throat coated in ash. Clouds of the stuff billowed when she coughed.

Pale fingers over her mouth. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

Sam looked worn. His suit was rumple and singe more than fabric, and the robin’s-egg of his shirt only served to emphasize the sallow of his skin. “You know, when you promised you’d ask for help? I kinda hoped that meant you’d do it before ending up dead.”

She had nothing to say to that.

Dipper ‘accidentally’ turns Stan into his 30 year old self. He was aiming to fully turn his Grunkle back into a kid, just for a few days, so his Grunkle would remember what it was like and maybe cut Dipper some slack one in a while. But instead the thing he’d given Stan turned back the clock on him, making Stan wake up in his 30 year old body, with only memories up until that point in his life, and nothing past it.

Thirty year old Stan still feels the fresh wound of losing Ford.

When Stan wakes up the first thing he feels is hunger. Followed by pain from his shoulder he can’t place. And then emptiness and a deeper sorrow—remembering what he’d done to Ford.

Stan yells, fighting his way out of the covers, crashing to the floor. He looked around, confused. It looked like he was still in the Hut, but everything was slightly…off. Before he could figure out why, he heard a series of thumps from the stairs and reached under the bed for his baseball bat and rushed to listen at the door.

He heard indistinct shouting and prepared himself for a fight. He opened the door and yelled, raising the bat up, preparing to strike. On the other side of the door were two small faces, kids, yelling back in surprise. Stan dropped his bat immediately, but glanced behind them, still checking for threats.

(He’d only had to deal with a couple of old ‘pals’ sniffing around since he faked his death. It’d been a while, sure, but that’s no reason to get cocky).

“Grunkle Stan?” came the girl’s voice, confused.

Stan was shocked—how do they know me?

“I’m not sure what a ‘grunkle’ is, but you got the name right, kiddo.” Stan thought quickly and asked “Are you guys here for a tour? You’re not supposed to be back here. And we don’t open yet.”

It was the only explanation he could come up with that didn’t freak him out too much. Because if he looked at the boy too long, he started seeing Ford in his features. And that was crazier than any of the weird shi—er, stuff, he’d seen around the forest so far.

Suddenly the boy turned to his sister—they had to be related, they could even be twins—(Stan shut that thought down quick as it came) and started explaining something quickly, waving his arms and clicking a pen that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“Mabel! It was the plant—the one we put in his cola—it had to be! It turned him young, just not young enough. But I guess he doesn’t remember being old, so that’s a problem too…” he trailed off and looked thoughtfully at Stan.

Stan, who’d only caught every third word or so, was trying to work out if he’d been poisoned by these kids when the girl spoke.

“Right! Okay, here’s the deal Mr. Stan. My name’s Mabel, and this is my twin brother, Dipper.” Stan felt himself choke on his breath when she confirmed they were twins, but she plowed on, hardly noticing. “Our parents sent us to Gravity Falls, Oregon to live with our great uncle for the summer. That’s you.” She pointed finger guns at him and continued, her braces glinting in the hall light.

“Most of the time you’re a grumpy old man, like a million or sixty or something, but you’ve got a gooey marshmallow heart and you love taking care of Dip-Dop and me! We’ve had some crazy adventures this summer, and you’ve probably had fun too, running this place and ordering Soos and Wendy around. We’re all family here and it’s great! You gave us the creepy attic room and make Stancakes every morning and don’t pay for a lot and you use your smoke bombs to avoid people, and smell like old man cream, but we love you!” She finished her speech, smiling sweetly.

Stan felt like his head was gonna explode. He asked the one question that burned through the haze, though. “Whose kids are ya?”

Dipper—yeesh, that isn’t really his name, right?—answered. “We’re your great niece and great nephew.” At Stan’s lost look Dipper explained further. “You know, Grandpa Shermie.”

Stan took that info and sighed. So the kids don’t know about me, he thought with relief. That’ll make this bit easier.

“Wait a second—you’re Sam’s kids?” Stan asked, blown away at what these kids were saying. “No way, he’s twelve, almost thirteen. I just talked to him at the—er, a few weeks ago.”

The boy narrowed his eyes at Stan’s almost slip-up (I still don’t know if they know about their other uncle yet) but the girl just laughed.

“Wow! Dad at twelve, just like us, Dipper! Did he look like a nerd?”

“What does a ‘nerd’ look like?”

“Like Dipper, but with glasses.”

“Hey!”

Mabel laughed again and booped her brother on the nose. “’Beep-boop, I am a nerd!’ That’s you, Dipper.”

The two argued and laughed for a moment but Stan’s head spun. Yeah, this is the best proof we’re related, he thought. I can’t believe I’m in the future. It still feels like 1984 to me.

“What year is it?” Stan interrupted.

The twins shared a long look. They had what looked like a quick mental conversation before Dipper answered, “2012.”

Stan did the math. Nearly 30 years. Have I got him back yet?

“So, thirty years, huh? How big has the family got since I was this old?”

Mabel took the lead. “Well, there’s us and mom and dad, Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Reb, mom’s relatives, and you!”

Stan felt his heart sink. I still haven’t got him back. It’s been thirty years—I’m the worst brother in the world. Stan felt his eyes overload with tears. He tried pushing them back but it was no use. He turned away from the kids and towards his room, trying to hide. But then he heard both kids gasp and he turned back, confused.

“Grunkle Stan,” Mabel whispered, horror lining her face, tears already falling. “What’s on your shoulder?”

At the reminder Stan felt the wound flair with pain. Stan sighed. “Nothing, kid. Look, I need a few moments to take this all in. Why dontcha go downstairs and pour some cereal or something—get breakfast started?”

Dipper and Mabel were both stuck, just staring.

“Now, ya little gremlins!” Stan yelled, voice a bit hoarse, and that got the kids moving.

Stan closed his door and looked around, trying to take stock of what was different between 58 year old Stan Pines and 28 year old Stan Pines.

The room was dark and messy. He saw some of the old man cream Mabel was talking about. He read the label—it was for joint pain. Makes sense, especially if that business from ’78 is what’s causing it, Stan thought. He picked his way around the room, trying to figure out what his next move should be. He spotted some advanced physics and math books sitting beneath a dirty pair of pants on the dresser. He saw an old “Employee of the Month” placard and an unfamiliar picture of a young man in the frame.

Why is that in here, not in the store? I put myself in the frame for a boost. Why’d old me keep it if it’s someone new?

Stan found the picture right where he hoped he would, glad it was still safe. Ford and him when they were kids. The photo he’d found when he’d actually been able to go through the entire house a couple months in. Stan checked the time—he should find some clothes and head downstairs—no telling what those kids would do—and figure out how close he is to bringing Ford back.

Nothing in his closet currently fit in the slightest. He sighed, resigning himself to underwear and a dirty tank top when he saw the box beside his bed. It looked ancient and dusty, except for the top, which looked like it had been brushed off recently. On top in wobbly marker it read “FOR HIS RETURN” and nothing else.

Carefully Stan opened the box and there he found the clothes he’d carefully packed away for Ford not six months ago. He remembered placing all the boxes in the attic space, unable to bear letting Ford’s things be eaten by the passage of time. Stan looked through the box and realized these are the only clothes that would work.

Stan attended to the burn first. It was still glowing orange, despite having been burned into him two years ago. Apparently that grate was just as sci-fi weird as the portal itself, and left the injury much longer than a normal burn would.

Then he picked out a button up and a pair of pants from his brother’s box. It was tripping Stan out that these clothes were over thirty years old and yet perfectly for him. He tried not to think about it. Stan checked himself in the mirror. He felt more like a fraud than ever.

He went downstairs to face the kids again. When he heard them whispering in the kitchen, however, he paused at the stairway to listen.

“No, Dipper! I don’t think telling him stuff will change the past. He just looks super young now. We didn’t bring him through time with us.”

“Mabel, still! He probably thinks like he’s thirty. He’s gonna get overloaded if we just keep telling him about the future! I mean present, ugh. Time travel mechanics are ridiculous!”

“Cheer up, Dip-Dop! At least this time no Time Cops are gonna be after us or challenge us to Globnar to the death or anything! It was just something he ate.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Stan came into the kitchen, shutting down the conversation between Mabel and Dipper as he did so. They ate a quiet breakfast of sneaky sideways glances and cereal. Stan tried organizing his thoughts, but it all came back to the same thing.

Stan needed to get into the basement ASAP. Above all else. He needed to know how close he was to bringing Ford back. To know if he ever just…gave up. He decided to believe the kids based off the weird conversation about paradoxes and time travel in the kitchen. Only two years here, and even Stan could see that anything was possible in Gravity Falls. These kids had apparently been here for almost two months and they already knew that. These kids were quick. And, from the little bit Stan had seen of them, just like he and Ford used to be. Close as can be, best friends, a great team.

“Alright, kids, give me the grand tour,” Stan said once the dishes were stacked haphazardly by the sink, wanting to know exactly what had changed in 28-some years. The first answer came as Mabel yelled the new apparent name of his tourist trap.

“Right! Everyone line up! Mystery Shack Tours are starting now!” Mabel yelled, getting Dipper to stand behind him to point out anything she missed. Together they pointed out areas of interest with a few truly disturbing stories to go along with it. Like the living room where their Grunkle Stan saved them from a zombie attack a few weeks ago. Or the spot in the roof that they had to fix because Lil’ Gideon bulldozed it when he stole the deed to the Shack.

“Some twerpy kid stole the house from me?” Stan practically screamed at Dipper and Mabel. He began to panic, imagining what would’ve happened to Ford if no one knew he was there. It took a long time to calm him down—Mabel ran to the kitchen to make him hot chocolate. Dipper led him to his yellow chair (still there, nice) and helped him sit and breathe. Turns out Stan does get panic attacks, but only since living in Ford’s old house.

When he calmed down, the kids assured him that everything was right where they’d left it. Stan was too embarrassed to comment.

“Look kids, can I have a few minutes to look around, get my bearings? A lot’s changed in the Hut since I remember it. Maybe you kids can go out and play for a little while. I promise I’ll be fine.”

Dipper and Mabel agreed. They went out, arguing about ways to use the same plant to age him back up. Stan ran to the gift shop as soon as they were out of sight.

Spying the vending machine, he crossed his fingers and put in what he hoped the code still was.

A-1-2-B-C-3

It opened. Stan breathed a sigh of relief and rushed downstairs, heaving the vending machine closed behind him. He ran down the steps to the elevator and finally out into the secret basement.

Stan was amazed. He’d done so much in all that time. Looking around he felt his legs give out, and he sat heavily in a nearby desk chair. The other two journals. They are right there. Stan felt like crying. That’s when he realized something was different—there was a hum in the air, like, like—

The portal was turned on.

Not only that, but it was counting down to operation. If all of this was correct, Stan was about 16 hours away from finally getting Ford back.

He cried. Tears of joy and anticipation. He held each copy of the Journals with reverence and awe.

Then he saw the photo on the desk. It was of Dipper and Mabel. Obviously taken this summer—on a boat? Did Stan have a boat—was it called…?

He finally got to see what he looked like as the old man the kids had been talking about all day. He shuddered at how much he looked like his own old man. Then he noticed his expression. He could see how much love Old Stan had for the kids. Even for the short time he’d known them, this Stan already loved them too.

He couldn’t lie to them about the machine. He wouldn’t know where to start.

Stan left everything as is, but took the framed photograph with him. He called for the kids to come on inside.

So Stan told them a story. A story of two brothers growing up by the beach. Twins who always had each other…until they didn’t. One with five fingers on each hand, one with six fingers on each hand. Dipper yelled, “Like the author!” at that and pulled out Journal 3 to show him.

Stan told them about the fight, the brother getting kicked out, the hard ten years alone; briefly, that is, it was still painful to think about. Then getting a post card for Gravity Falls, Oregon one day after ten years of silence. The brother went to his twin’s side.

“He wanted to help, you see,” Stan told them. “But just like before, the younger twin, Lee, was a screw-up and disappointment. He’d threatened to burn his brother’s Journal to get rid of the dangerous information it contained. Sixer attacked Lee, and they fought viciously. Sixer pushed Lee into a burning grate of the machine he’d built in the basement, burning him. Branding him.” Stan flexed his shoulder blade and felt the ache spread across his back once more.

“Then Lee did the worst thing he’d done yet. He picked up the journal and punched his brother, who’d stopped fighting when he’d pushed him into the fiery grate, back towards the machine they’d accidentally turned on in the fight. Lee told him ‘You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family. If you love them so much, then you can have them!’ and pushed Sixer and the book over the safety line. Sixer floated up towards the machine, pulled into a new center of gravity. Lee realized they’d gone too far too late (again). Sixer called out for help, throwing the book back down screaming in terror, “Save me, Lee, help me! Do something, Lee—“and was pulled into the machine—a portal to another world. Lee did all he could to bring Sixer back, but it was no use. The machine refused to become active again. Lee worked until the pain from his branded wound made him pass out from the pain.”

“Lee had pushed his own brother into exile and almost certain death. He couldn’t let his brother stay there. So he started to search. Search for the other two Journals, learning his brother’s levels of science, math, physics, calculus, space, technology, machines, and more. Lee faked his death and took Sixer’s name as his own so no one would know what happened. This meant he could stay in his twin’s house and work every day and night to save his brother’s life.”

“The brothers’ names were Stanley and Stanford Pines. Stanford was older, and born with six functional fingers on each hand. And a genius. Stanley was younger and had five fingers on each hand. Only good for holding his brother back, a worthless, brainless screw-up.” Stan shifted uncomfortably as he made his final confession, no more story to hide behind.

“I am Stanley Pines. I pushed my brother Stanford into the portal two years ago, and I have worked every day of the last two years to get him back.”

“Your Stan has been working for thirty years. Now he is fourteen hours away. He has all three Journals, finally, and the machine is counting down to be activated as we speak. I—I’m finally going to see my brother again.”

Stan’s eyes filled with tears and he let them fall. The kids were staring open-mouthed at him. Dipper had been anxiously clicking a pen all throughout Stan’s story, but at Stan’s final confession, it had fallen from his hand. Mabel had her grip tightened around the edge of her sweater, bunching it in her fingers and letting it go, as if the motion would help her process everything her Grunkle had just said.

Dipper and Mabel had a bajillion questions and didn’t quite believe what they were told until Stan showed them the newspaper clippings and photos and fake IDs and other proof of what he’d said. Including showing them his burn again. Intentionally, this time.

 Dipper said the effect of the plant they put in his coffee would run out on its own over the course of the next couple days. Stan knows he’ll have to greet Ford tonight as is. Mabel said they’ll both be right by his side, tonight, to help explain and smooth things over.

Stan could see so much of Sam in the pair of them. He’d kept calling the kid just like he’d promised since the ‘funeral’. Stan could tell he was a real smart kid, with a bright future ahead of him. Looking at Sam’s kids, his twins, Stan could practically cry with how proud of the kid he was. He remembered that Sam had been the most decent one at the service, despite only being nearly a teen. It felt good to know he’d been right about Sam.

It boggled his mind to realize that now Sam was older than him. Even worse, in his current state, Ford was 28 years older than Stan.

Sam: There’s not much of a story to tell, honestly. Being a Pines, I’ve got some old family ties to the Dinner Crew, and I owed some people. It was a pretty shortlived arrangement.

Sam: Well, for one thing, Delina’s parents keep her out of school specifically so people don’t find out about her fire magic. I have… other means.

So I wrote a fic where Stan tells Shermie’s kid (who at the time is twelve) a life-changing secret, and tells him not to tell a soul. 

Dad didn’t cry at Grandpa’s funeral. Neither did mom. Grandma was ostensibly loud, but I never actually saw a tear. My uncle though. He was made of stone. I mean, at least the rest tried to look sad. But Uncle Stan stood in the back and his face was angrier than I’d ever seen it.

I was 22 when Grandpa Pines died. By that time we’d moved cross country and I was in my last year of undergrad. Computer Science was the hot new field and I was naturally interested in computers growing up. And all sorts of other gadgets. Dad started me with tin soldiers, but somehow I always ended up with the tinker toys.

My parents lived in South California. I went to school further north. My one uncle lived in Oregon, but he was closer than Mom and Dad. Grandma and Grandpa still lived in New Jersey. I got a phone call from Mom about the news. Told her thanks for calling and we discussed school for a bit before hanging up.

Didn’t bother me over much. I had a paper due in two days that bothered me more, to be honest. Grandpa Pines always made me feel like a disappointment when I was a kid, without even saying a word.

Plus, when I was 17, Dad had finally told me the story (as he knew it) behind Uncle Lee and Grandpa. It’s a good thing we’d already moved, or else I would’ve done something stupid. Like egg his house or bust up some of the shop. As it was, I had some buddies of mine from back home bust up his car. Key it, TP the shop, just punk stuff that’d been going on for years. All at once. Dad wasn’t too happy to hear I’d done that.

Uncle Stan, on the other hand, had offered me a high 5 ½.

(I’ll get to that later)

Anyway, Grandpa died when I was 22 and my first thought was if that meant I could push back my paper’s deadline because of a death in the family. (The professor was pretty tough, but a few fake tears and he broke down into a human being again. My professors are better with machines than people, mostly).

I called Uncle Stan the day I got the call after class. We talked about some of my homework for a while, and he even helped me get unstuck from this problem I’d been having in my upper level math for a while.

Then I asked if he’d heard the news. Uncle Stan is a guy who could talk even the most obnoxious know-it-all in circles, under any circumstances. I’d heard the stories and seen him in action, on occasion. But when I asked this, a part of him seemed to drop, and I heard him take a few quick breaths on the other end of the line before he answered with a shaky “Yes.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I expected from him. Dad had told me most of the story between Uncle Lee, Uncle Stan, and Grandpa, but he’d only gotten it secondhand. When all that happened, I was almost two, being watched by Grandma the night it happened. It weirds me out to think that the last time I saw Uncle Lee alive, I’d barely been old enough to walk.

Mom had been at work, waitressing. Dad had been serving too, overseas somewhere. Here’s how Dad told me it happened:

My Grandpa Filbrick was a hard man, hard to please, hard to get a word out of, hard-pressed to show any emotion except anger. My dad was their first son. Older than Uncle Lee and Uncle Stan by almost ten years.

Grandpa had been hard on the tree of them, but he’d been the worst on his second children. Twins, unexpected, and ‘a burden from day one.’ Dad had heard Grandpa Filbrick saw a few too many things about Lee and Ford over the years, some while drunk, some stone cold sober. That’s just how Grandpa was.

Dad said Grandpa hadn’t paid a lick of attention to either of them unless they were making him look bad—or if they had the potential to make money. (Some of this is how Mom saw things too. Once they argued about who had the better perspective on it, all things considered. I’m not sure either of them won).

When my uncles were 17 (turning 18 that summer—I had just turned 2 that January) Uncle Ford was suddenly in the running for a full-ride scholarship to one of the best sci-tech colleges in the country. The principal told ‘em all it could be the opportunity to make them millions one day. Mom said from that moment on, Filbrick saw Ford as a talking dollar sign, and didn’t see Lee at all.

Something happened to Ford’s project—the one that would get him the full ride—and Lee was blamed. There was a huge fight at home, and only four people know exactly what was said, two of which are now dead. Filbrick kicked his son Lee out of the house, banning him from coming back until he could make up the millions he’d stolen when he’d supposedly ruined Ford’s project.

Ford didn’t help his brother. Too angry, he turned away when Lee called for help.

The real kicker in the story, though, is that Grandpa had already had a bag packed for Stan. He had just been waiting for the opportunity to do it. Dad said my Grandpa bragged about that one night after a few too many rounds at the local bar. Dad had come to pick him up and carried him half home, taxis all gone. Dad said he’d dumped him on the curb to let him find his own way after he’d said that. I would have punched him first. But I’m not really a fighter. I’m a big guy, but I’m no good at throwing that weight around.

Anyway, that’s most of the story. Uncle Lee took Grandpa’s words seriously, until ten years later he died in a car wreck on his way to talk to Uncle Stan.

That rally seemed to tear Uncle Stan up. That’s when he changed his family nickname from Ford to Stan. That’s all I’ve really known him as.

That’s Dad’s version. When I was 17, Dad told me all that. When I was 18, I’d gone up to Uncle Stan’s for a couple of weeks before school started. He gave me the story between the cracks. It was a hundred times worse coming from him.

He told me how Grandpa Filbrick had yelled and roughly handled Uncle Lee. He told me of the justified anger he’d felt at his brother. How his Pa’s reaction only egged him on. How he turned away when his brother needed him most. Then immediately threw up, sick with what he’d done.

But, how, over time, that anger and justification was continuously fed and fueled by his father. Filbrick kept the wound fresh. And Ford let that anger for his brother fester. The desire to prove himself fueled him through finishing college on time but with two extra degrees. How he came out here to continue studying.

It led only to dead ends and disappointments. He hadn’t talked to his father since his first year in Gravity Falls, when he made it clear he didn’t care about making money, he just wanted to study. Filbrick had practically disowned him as well, at that.

Apparently Grandpa’s greatest skill was alienating himself and everyone around him.

Uncle Stan told me how it felt, all those years. The guilt and anger warring within him for so long. He told me what it did to him when he lost Stanley when he was so close to seeing him again. He told me a lot of things that made me shudder and wipe a tear at. I couldn’t even dream of putting it all here. It’s too much.

So when I asked if Uncle Stan had heard the news, I wasn’t sure what to expect from him. I asked if he’d be going back for the funeral. He said he oughtta help his Ma pack away the shop. I hadn’t thought about that.

I asked if I could help. Uncle Stan wanted me to stay at school, not get distracted by old bones and dust. I agreed to stay at school if he agreed to let me visit after he got back. He laughed and joked about my flourishing skills as a negotiator, claiming all the credit. But he agreed and we moved on to lighter topics, talking about small nothings for another few minutes before I let him go.

Uncle Stan has come to mean a lot to me these last ten years. I met him when I was twelve. I hated to think he was up there alone during another bad time. Knowing our family’s history made it harder for me to just try and let him suffer through another death in the family by himself. But he’s a tough guy, and he hates showing what he thinks of as weakness in front of other people. He lets his guard down with me, sometimes, but it’s hard to crack through.