Starting over was the hardest part. He'd picked up the pieces slowly, and not without resentment, like an arthritic old man whose dog had
knocked over a vase. There were still a helluva lot of pieces missing but the general shape had begun to reappear. Some of the cracks were
seamless now, but he could feel their lumpy scars if he held it in his hands. It would never be whole again, he knew. A few pieces would have
inevitably vanished under the metaphorical couch, too far for him to do any more than brush them with his fingertips. She kept those, clutched
in the same hand that he'd held on their first date. The one that she used to brush his bangs out of his face when she kissed him, or poke him
gently in the side when she wanted his attention. Most importantly, the hand that reached out to him from the ceiling, engulfed in flames. He
could see the shards clearly in his dreams. Every night she held them out and called his name and he would wake in a cold sweat in a motel
room in Milwaukee, San Diego, Charlotte or the front seat of the Impala. It didn't really matter, they were all the same. Drive, hunt, salt-n-burn,
lick wounds, drive. Day and night melding into an obscure twilight where occasionally he couldn't tell if the monsters he was fighting were real
or in his head.