January, 1982

'It's like I was drowning, and you saved me. It's all I know.'

He could think of more than a million other things he would rather be doing, but he had promised his parents he would try. He had been promising them for a month, and had run out of excuses. Now, he was stuck in a stuffy gymnasium, doing the last thing he wanted to. The support group may have helped his Mom and Dad, but listening to other kids talk about their friend or sibling dying only made him feel worse. He didn't want to tell them anything about Danielle. They didn't know her, and they never would, because she was gone. Did the dozen other teenagers sitting in the absurd circle with him really care that much that his sister was dead? That she was never coming back? Did they care that sometimes it felt like she was still there, and then the pain hit him all over again? Did they care that he couldn't sleep knowing she was never going to be in the room across the hall from his again? He wasn't going to auction off details about Danielle's short life like it meant nothing.

"Alright, how is everyone tonight?" The group leader asks. He claimed to be a psychiatrist, but Derek seriously doubted it. He didn't see a medical degree hanging on the gymnasium wall. "We're going to discuss channeling our grief into something constructive. Anyone have thoughts about this? I see some new faces. How about one of you? Anything to say?"

Not particularly. Nothing interested him enough to serve as a 'channel' for his grief. Whatever that meant.

"Say something, or he'll make us do trust falls." The girl next to him whispers. She was younger than him, but not by much.

"I'll take my chances with trust falls." Though he truly hoped she was lying.

"Damn, that one almost always works."

"I'm not saying something just because you don't want to." Derek crossed his arms, and she pouted a little bit. She was clearly disappointed that she hadn't been able to manipulate him.

"I was that obvious, huh?" She asks, catching the attention of the group leader.

"Something you feel like sharing, Meredith?"

"Is there ever, Ben?"

"I'm sorry, you just seemed chatty." Ben apologized. "It was nice to see."

"I'm not chatty." She argued, and pointed her thumb at Derek. "Farmer boy here is."

"Farmer boy?" Derek asks, and remembers the flannel shirt he is wearing.

"Introduce yourself if you'd prefer to be called something else."

"Derek." He sighs. "My name is Derek."

"Hi, Derek. I'm Ben." Ben smiles. "We're happy to have you here."

Everyone in the room looked thrilled. Honestly. Had Ben forgotten why they were all here? Thankfully, someone on the other side of the circle begins to say something, leaving Derek to stare at the wall again.

"Yes, Ben is very happy you lost someone you care about." Meredith rolls her eyes. "In case you missed that."

"You had that same thought?"

"Poor guy doesn't have a clue."

"I'm sure he means well."

"Oh, he definitely does." Meredith defends him. "Everyone else here loves him. Bares their heart and soul, and all of that. And then there's me, who told him last week that my radio died, and I miss it terribly. I wish I could have played my favorite tape just one last time."

Derek stifles a laugh. It was a dark humor, but it felt like the only humor he should laugh at. "Our toaster broke the other day. I'd give anything for one more bagel."

"Nice one, farmer boy."

"I am all for defense mechanisms, Miss Chatty."

"I am not chatty."

"You haven't stopped talking to me..."

"You haven't stopped talking to me." Meredith says petulantly, making Derek shake his head.

"My five-year-old sister is easier to deal with than you."

"Most people are easier to deal with than me."

"I think you like it that way."

"Maybe I do." Meredith brushes some stray blonde hairs away from her eyes. "Maybe you're picking up a few pointers."

"Maybe I am."