Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. "Come In From The Rain" (C) The Captain and Tennille; 1977 A&M Records.

CHAPTER 8
A FRAYING THREAD

Day 275.

8:35 A.M.

Green Bay Road.
...

Traffic on the highway was bottlenecked to a slug's pace, and Hyde spotted the cause through the Camino's windshield: Crunched-up Mazda kissing the ass of a Dodge Ramcharger. The two cars were in the middle of the road, but the S.U.V. was the real problem. And its burly owner was advancing menacingly on the Mazda's scrawny owner.

Right. Now Hyde remembered. He'd passed by this accident nine months ago, on three September 8ths.

This time, he pulled up behind the accident—on the shoulder so he didn't block traffic himself. Then he got out of the Camino and walked alongside the Mazda. Its front end was totaled, but the passenger-side had borne the brunt of the crash. The driver's side window was cracked with several potato-sized holes, and he peered inside.

A woman was slumped over the dashboard, on the passenger seat. A rosary dangled from the rearview mirror into her face, and her forehead looked as if it had fallen into a can of violet paint—a deep bruise.

A sharp chill scrabbled up Hyde's spine. This had to be one of the "senseless deaths" Mrs. Forman told him about the day Jackie had offed herself... on day 6.

"You're gonna pay for a new bumper, dickhead!" the S.U.V.'s owner shouted, and he shoved the Mazda's owner backward—into Hyde.

"Oh, God." The scrawny guy jerked around and grabbed Hyde by the shirt. "You have to help me! Sarah—my wife—I have to get her to a hospital. But this assh—this man just wants to fight and won't move his car." He turned back around, "Move your damn car!" and lunged for the burly S.U.V. owner.

Hyde stepped between them before either could throw a punch. "Hey," he said calmly, "what're your names?"

"Chad," the S.U.V.'s owner said, as if it were an automatic reflex.

"Ben... Hobart, but what—"

"Okay, Mr. Hobart, you gotta step back, man," Hyde said and hooked his shades onto his shirt collar, "'cause I'm gonna take care of this."

Mr. Hobart walked back to the Mazda without argument, but Chad shouted, "What about my bumper?"

"Yeah..." Hyde clutched his belt buckle and tilted his head, "Chad,you're gonna get in your car, and you're gonna drive it onto the shoulder, right behind that tree there. Otherwise, you're gonna need a hospital, too."

"You serious?" Chad's mouth cracked into a smile. He was shorter than Hyde by a few inches, but he was also bigger—half-muscle, half-fat. "Sure," he said and gestured to himself. "Try it. 'Cause I ain't going nowhere until I get some cash or take it out of his hide."

"His 'hide,' huh?" Hyde was smiling now, too. "What a coincidence... 'cause Hyde's gonna kick your ass."

Chad screwed up his face as if he didn't get the joke—and his confusion gave Hyde time enough to move in close, bring back his knee, and smash him in the stones. When the first strike didn't bring him down, Hyde did it again—and Chad sank to the pavement with a grunt.

But the bastard wasn't out. His hand clamped down on Hyde's ankle and forced him to the ground through pain. Hyde stifled a curse, tried to pry Chad's fingers off him, and they sprang open—only to form a fist that rammed straight into his ribs.

A throbbing burn expanded outward into Hyde's stomach and back, but nothing felt like it had cracked. Man, was this guy pissing him off. He would've liked to take his time here, to dissect Chad's weaknesses. But unlike all the drunken bar fights he'd gotten into, this brawl had a purpose. It had to be short and dirty.

Chad punched him in the side again, sending more pain into his ribs, but Hyde rolled with the momentum onto his back. The pavement was hard beneath his head, and Chad was on top of him in a blink.

Good.

"You little punk," Chad said. "You think 'cause you're a few years younger 'an me, you got something over on me?" His meaty fingers dug into Hyde's shoulder and pressed him down. "Well, I'm gonna teach ya better."

The bastard drew back his thick arm but held it in place. He wasn't done talking yet—exactly what Hyde was counting on.

"Yeah," Chad said, "two punches, and you're already on your back like a whore." His arm sank a little, and he laughed gruffly. "A Goddam who—"

Hyde slammed a fist into Chad's throat, causing his eyes to bulge and a strangled gasp to leave him. Rough coughs pushed out of his lungs, but the sonuvabitch was still on his knees. So Hyde tackled him to the pavement.

Cars were honking at them, and Mr. Hobart kept shouting, "His keys! Get his keys!" but Hyde wasn't taking any chances. He straddled Chad's thick torso and slugged him in the jaw—over and over—until the coughs stopped and it was clear Chad had fallen unconscious.

"Asshole," Hyde said and rubbed his knuckles. Then he put his shades back on.

Leftover adrenaline made his hands shake as he searched Chad for his car keys. Mr. Hobart crouched down and helped him look, but Hyde found them in Chad's jeans pocket.

"Hey," Hyde said to Mr. Hobart, "I'll get you an ambulance, but we gotta drag that douchebag off the road."

They pulled Chad's hefty body onto the shoulder together, and Hyde glanced protectively at the Camino. He hated to abandon her here. She was his baby—and his most constant companion during the last nine months—but she was only steel. Mr. Hobart's wife was flesh and blood.

"Please hurry," Mr. Hobart said as Hyde got into the S.U.V.

"Yeah." Hyde shut the door and started up the engine. He was surprised at how clean the inside of the car was. Though he hadn't smelled any alcohol on Chad's breath, he'd expected to see at least an empty beer bottle or two.

He spared a last glimpse at Mr. Hobart, who was walking back to the Mazda. Chad was lying between the Camino and the bushes lining the shoulder, but who knew how long he'd stay knocked out?

"Hobart!" Hyde shouted out the S.U.V.'s window. "If the bastard wakes up, kick him in the face."

8:54 A.M.

Hyde had driven the S.U.V. into Point Place and parked it on Pine Avenue, by the first payphone he spotted. He called the hospital where Mrs. Forman worked, emergency services, and told them about the accident. Then he waited. His knuckles were sore from the fight, and his ribs hurt a little when he breathed, but his body felt fine otherwise.

His mind, though, wasn't doing so hot. The urge to spark up a joint or get wasted—or do anything that would numb him—grappled with his need to find a permanent solution to his problems. So he focused on the pain in his hand, on the bruise forming over his ribs, until an ambulance finally blared down Pine Avenue. It was six minutes after he'd made the call.

9:12 A.M.

The hospital elevator opened on the third floor, and the smell of disinfectant rushed into Hyde's nose, and the strong ceiling lights were dimmed by his shades. He hadn't wanted to come here again, considering what he'd seen the last time, but he couldn't get the image of Mrs. Hobart out of his head. She'd looked half-dead in the wrecked Mazda, and he had to find out what happened to her.

Mrs. Forman was standing at the nurses' station, studying some papers. But she must have spotted Hyde in her peripheral vision because her eyes shot up, and her expression brightened.

"Hey, Mrs. Forman," he said.

"Steven!" She stepped out from the nurses' desk and hurried to him. "You didn't have to come all the way to the hospital. A phone call that you were home would've been enough."

"Yeah—"

She enclosed him in a constricting hug. "I was so upset my other boy left the same day as Eric, but you're here now," her arms squeezed tighter around his bruised ribs, "and I'm so happy!"

"I'm glad, Mrs. Forman, but could you—you're kinda hurting me."

"Oh!" She let go of him and started to laugh. "I'm sorry, honey. It's just—I can't believe you're here. It feels like you've been gone for a lot longer than a night."

He touched his side, and it stung at the slight pressure. "Feels like that to me, too."

"How was Chicago?" she said, and then she gasped. "How's Jackie? Did you two patch things up?"

"Uh, not yet." He suppressed a scowl. Why the hell did everyone ask about her? "There was this accident—"

She gasped again. "Is it Jackie? Oh, my God, what happened? Is she all right?"

"Jackie's got nothin' to do with it."

Nurses scurried to and fro on the hospital floor as he told Mrs. Forman about the Hobarts and the asshole, Chad. Patients were being pushed down hallways on wheelchairs, and orderlies carried food trays in and out of rooms. He described Mrs. Hobart's forehead bruise, "Like someone had hit her with a hammer."

"Was she conscious?" Mrs. Forman said.

"No."

Her face fell a little, and she rubbed Hyde's shoulder. "Why don't you go home, and I'll call you about Mrs. Hobart's status as soon as I can. She'll be brought to the ER first."

"But I—"

Mrs. Forman checked her watch. "I have to get back to work, sweetie." But then her eyes shone wetly in the bright hospital lights. "That man, he didn't punch you in the head, did he? Because that could cause a concussion or—"

"Just two hits right here." Hyde pointed to his side.

"Lift your arms above your head." Her tone left no room for argument, so he did as she said. "How does that feel?"

"Like I got punched in the ribs."

"Steven." She sighed. "Is the pain worse? Is it difficult to breathe?"

"No, I'm breathing fine, man. Just feels like a bruise."

"Then they're probably not broken." Her smile finally returned, and he put down his arms. "Follow me." She led him to the nurse's station, where a young nurse stood with a patient's chart in her hands. "Excuse me, Priscilla," Mrs. Forman said and pulled something from a cabinet behind the desk.

"Take this," she handed him an instant cold pack, "and use it at home—over your shirt or covered in a dishtowel, okay? I'm going to make your favorite dinner tonight. What you did today—" Her palms went to his cheeks, and she kissed him lightly on the lips. "You're a hero, Steven. No wonder that girl loves you."

Hyde almost eased into the warmth she was showing him, but then she'd had to put in that last part. It made his insides feel warped, like they were puzzle pieces mashed into the wrong places. Made him want to bolt. Without responding to her praise, he thanked her for the cold pack and brought it with him to the elevators.

9:33 A.M.

Hyde parked the S.U.V. on the shoulder of Green Bay Road, right behind the Camino. Thankfully, his baby hadn't been towed away yet, unlike the wrecked Mazda. Chad was gone; the ambulance must have picked him up with the Hobarts. Whatever. The bastard would probably get better than he deserved.

Hyde walked toward the Camino and tossed the S.U.V.'s keys into some bushes. At least Chad would lose more than a bumper today.

9:54 A.M.

It felt nice to be driving his own car again instead of that clunky Ramcharger. He knew the Camino's every quirk, what every rattle and clatter meant; how long she could go on fumes and what kind of oil she liked. On his longer trips he'd talk to her—and, like the best kind of girl, she never spoke back.

But he could've used her input before they'd driven off the highway. He was only a few blocks from the Formans', but Jackie wouldn't be there. She'd be at her own house by now. He made a left on 92nd Avenue and headed toward the richer part of town. Too much wasted time, man.

10:08 A.M.

Hyde stepped onto the Burkharts' front porch and rang the doorbell. Pam opened the door a minute later. "Well, hello," she said. "You're Jackie's friend... Sven, right?"

"Yeah." He focused on the Moroccan-themed floor tile inside the house. "Can I come in?"

"Please." She led him into the living room, and he kept his head down. Very close to the front door was a pink suitcase. It had to be Jackie's. "I didn't expect her to come home so soon," Pam said, "but she got in about twenty minutes ago."

Twenty-six, he thought and averted his gaze from the white couch. What he'd done there, with her, hadn't left him. Even after 270 days. And the thick, woody scent of her perfume made the memories burst vividly in his mind.

"I tried to talk to her," Pam's voice trilled in his ears, slightly slurred, "but she just ran upstairs and locked herself in her room. I think she was crying. Do you think—maybe you can make her feel better." She touched his shoulder, and he flinched. "Goodness! You're so tense."

"Had a rough morning." He slid his hand over the staircase's ornately-carved bannister. "I'll go check on her."

"Thank you, Sven," she said. Her footsteps clacked away from him, followed by the sound of a drink being poured.

Hyde climbed the stairs, and a muffled, schmaltzy melody reached him through Jackie's door. He recognized the song, much to his disdain. Jackie had played it for him more than once.

"It's a long, long road when you're all alone," the song warbled at him, "and a man like you will always choose the long way home."

He shuddered—The Captain & Tennille—and knocked on her door. No answer except the music's volume was ratcheted up.

"There's no right or wrong. I'm not here to blame..." He banged on the door as the song continued. "I just wanna be the one who keeps you from the rain."

He banged on the door again. Jackie's scream cut through the music: "Go away!"

"Jackie," he shouted back, "open the door!"

The song immediately shut off, and the door whipped open. Jackie was standing there, but she flung her arms around his neck before he had a chance to see her. He brought her closer—though his ribs hurt at the contact—until their chests were touching. Each of her breaths pressed her tightly against him, sending warmth into his body, and the ache inside him finally dulled.

"Hey," he said, but she was crying into his cheek. He let himself comfort her, stroked her back. She felt so damn good in his arms. Maybe too damn good. He walked them both into her room and kicked the door closed.

"Steven," Jackie withdrew from him a little, and he finally saw her eyes—beautiful... and afraid, "I am so sorry about what happened in Chi—"

"Don't." He kissed her, using the whole of his mouth. It felt like home... almost. He didn't let her up for air, didn't want to hear her speak. The moment she talked, everything would go to crap. But soon she tapped his chest, letting him know she needed a break. He gave it to her.

"Why?" Jackie said breathlessly. "Why are you—" but he pressed a finger to his lips, hoping to keep her quiet. "Stev—"

He pressed his finger to her lips. "Keep your trap shut, okay?"

"But—"

"Jackie, if you want this to work, you gotta shut up."

She nodded, and he left her to lock the door. Then he flipped through her albums—Donny Osmond, The Pretenders, freakin' ABBA—and found her sole Rolling Stones record. He'd given it to her for his own survival and was a little surprised she still had it. But he put it on her stereo, thankful she hadn't chucked it.

Jackie stepped toward him. "Stev—"

"Shh..." he said and went to her bed. A small cigar box was on it, much like the one he kept under his cot. Cards he once gave her and scraps of paper with his scrawl were strewn over the comforter—along with a golden grasshopper pendant. He'd bought it for her on a day that had no meaning, except for being the latest in a string of really nice days...

Hell, they were the best damn days he'd had in his life.

He placed everything back in the cigar box as Jackie watched, put the box on her nightstand. Then he opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was her stash of rubbers. He pulled one out and left it on top of the cigar box.

Jackie was tapping her bare foot, a habit she indulged in when she was upset and wanted to stay quiet. He cupped her face and kissed her, tenderly this time.

But it didn't feel right. He strengthened the kiss until she moaned into his mouth and sank to the bed. He didn't join her there; and, for a while, she gazed at him in a kind of lusty stupor. But, after she inhaled a sharp breath, she said, "Does this mean you still want to marr—"

He held a shushing finger to his lips again.

She grunted and clutched the comforter. Keeping quiet had to be torture for her, but that wasn't his intention, not anymore. He sat down on the bed, slid his hands to the small of her back and coaxed a smile out of her. She took his shades off him, which deepened her smile, and he drew her body flush against him.

Nothing had replaced this, had replaced her these last nine months. Her fingertips brushed lightly over his jawline, and that simple touch satiated him more completely than nailing a dozen girls at once had—than nailing any of the countless chicks he'd met.

He swept his lips down Jackie's cheek and made her gasp as his teeth grazed her earlobe. Gasps were fine. So were moans. Words were the problem, and he didn't give her the opportunity to say any. He sucked on her neck, on the sensitive hollow of her throat, causing her breaths to grow ragged and her hands to grasp tightly at his back. His kisses were intense when he returned to her mouth, but she matched their power and surpassed it, forcing him to stop and pull in a lungful of air.

She giggled—that was okay, too—as he lowered her to the pillows. But making out wasn't enough for him, not after so damn long. He needed more of her. He lifted off her top, the navy blue one with the white anchors. She must have worn it 270 times in a row, and he chuckled at the thought. She would've freaked had she known.

Jackie sat up a little, probably spurred on by his laughter. "What are y—"

He silenced her with another kiss. But before his tongue could make contact, hers slid deftly between his parted lips and stole his breath. He was happy to lose it. Since their first kiss on her father's Lincoln, no girl had matched her.

His hands reached underneath Jackie's back and unhooked her bra, and he lost his breath again. Her breasts were small and round and rose-tipped and freakin' perfect—mostly because they belonged to her. He knew just how they'd feel in his hands, how to roll and lick their peaks until her voice cried out and her fingers dug into his scalp. They beat out every set of breasts he'd seen or caressed or tasted the last nine months...

And he couldn't bring himself to touch them.

He shifted his focus lower. Her hips and thighs were clad in denim, a pair of jeans. He yanked them off, revealing red cotton panties. The sight of them should have increased his joy, same as it increased his hard-on. But his heart was swelling with something darker, something dangerous, like a balloon inflating with poisonous gas.

Jackie eyes widened when his fingers slipped beneath her panties. He pushed them down past her butt—and no further. She'd squeezed her knees together.

"Steven, what is goi—"

"Man," he said, "can't you keep your piehole shut for more than five minutes?"

"No, I can't! What do you think you're doing?"

He climbed off the bed and backed away. "You got a choice, Jackie. You can ask me a question, one question, or you can be with me. But if you ask me the wrong question, I'm leaving the second I give the answer."

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Then she shrugged and threw up her hands. "Okay." Her voice was pained, as if she were on the verge of tears.

Hyde searched himself for sympathy... and found nothing. "Get on your stomach," he said.

She did as he told her, and he pulled off her panties. Soon, they lay at the bottom of a heap that included his jeans and boxers. He grabbed the rubber from the top of the cigar box, tore it from the package, and sheathed his erection inside.

Jackie was completely naked and exposed. Silent. He took one of her pillows and placed it beneath her hips. Then he crawled over her back and positioned himself near the apex of her thighs.

He was gonna fuck her. If she didn't pipe up, ask him something, or tell him not to, he was gonna fuck away all the meaning she had to him. Kissing her was only half right, as was holding her, looking at her. A fuck would make it all wrong: Pleasure without connection, and passion without love.

His arms supported his weight by her shoulders. His hips eased forward...

"What's the right question?" Jackie whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Relief hit him like grenade, causing his eyes to shut and his pounding heart to slow. He pushed himself off her, off the bed, and slid off the rubber. Then he pulled on his boxers, his jeans.

Jackie rolled onto her back and sat up. "What's the right question, Steven?"

He crossed his arms defensively. "How about asking me what I fucking wantwithout thinking about your own damn self for once, without shoving what you want down my fucking throat?"

"What do you want?" she said, but he went to the door and unlocked it, walked out. "Steven!"

"One question You asked it."

He reached the bottom of the stairs, but she caught his arm. "Please!" she said. He glanced at her; she was still naked. "Steven, what do you want?"

He ripped her hand off him. "I want you to fucking get it!"

"Then tell me!"

"Do you have any Goddamn idea what you've done?"

Jackie's face flushed, and tears tracked wetly down her cheeks. "I didn't do it, baby. I swear! Michael was just—"

"Not that." He grabbed her elbow and yanked her across the living room. The time read 10:27 A.M. on the grandfather clock, and Pam was nowhere to be seen. "Before, Jackie. Before Chicago."

"Before?" She stared at him, seemed to search his face for the answer.

"I'll show you," he said.

He took off his watch and fastened it around Jackie's forearm—it was too big for her wrist. Then he dragged her into the kitchen. It was on par with the one at W.B.'s house, as large and well-equipped, only the Burkharts couldn't afford a cook anymore.

A bread box, a spice rack, and a knife block sat on the counter. He studied the knife block for a moment then removed the paring knife from its slot.

Jackie stepped back. "Wha—what are you doing, Puddin'?"

Hyde cringed. He hadn't heard that name in so long, and the feelings it stirred up made his stomach clench. She was terrified and trying to reach him, but his goal was to reach her. Words weren't fucking enough.

"Not gonna use the knife on you," he said. "Calm down."

His eyes flicked to her naked body. She had every right to be scared. She was completely vulnerable. But she must have trusted him enough, or was desperate enough, to keep standing there.

"Remember when you went to that wedding with Fez?" he said, and she nodded silently. "Remember what you said that night when you came back?"

"I asked you about—about our future."

"Right. You wanted me to tell you if I ever saw us gettin' hitched, and I couldn't. 'Cause I didn't know because I didn't freakin' know."

"'Didn't'?" Jackie said, but her attention was on the knife. He was holding it by his leg. "Does that mean you know now?"

He rolled his eyes. The Earth could be erupting in flames all around her, and she'd still yammer on about a damn wedding. "Yeah, that's the right question to—" He bit back his contempt, refocused himself. "What did you say that night when I told you I didn't know?"

She looked down at the kitchen floor.

"What did you say, Jackie?"

"I said I couldn't be with you anymore."

"Bingo. Any clue how that made me feel?"

"You said..." Her gaze returned to the knife. "You told me not to threaten you."

He smiled cheerlessly. "Now why the hell do you think I'd say that?"

"Because you felt threatened?"

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Come on."

"I don't know, Steven, okay? If you didn't see a future with me, why would you care if I broke up with you?"

"I didn't see a future without you," he said, and his grip tightened on the knife's handle. "You, Jackie. Not with whatever you became two years a—last year."

She backed away toward the fridge. "What are you talking about?"

"All the pushing, man. You quit having fun, being fun. The only thing you cared about was what other people thought about you. Conforming. You wanted a damn wedding, a fucking idea, and I wanted you."

"No, I—you wanted me?" Jackie's features grew harder, fueled by an emotion Hyde couldn't pinpoint. "You wanted... me." She laughed quietly. "You wanted me."

He brought the knife's edge to his left forearm, and she stopped laughing. "You remember all the crap I told you about Edna?" His breathing was rough, and it made his ribs hurt, but he kept talking. "Nothing was ever enough for her, man."

Jackie moved toward the counter, toward him. Her nakedness didn't seem to matter to her, and she reached for the knife. "Steven, please, let me—"

He backed away now, to the dishwasher, and kept the knife at his skin. "I was like fucking Sisyphus, rolling the boulder up the hill. Right before he gets to the top, the boulder falls back down. It'll never stay up there, no matter how many times he tries, but he keeps tryin' and tryin'—'cause who wants to spend eternity in hell?

"Your..." Jackie's voice had begun to shake, and he thought she might bail. "Your mom's love was the boulder, right?" She shook her head. "No. The boulder was the things she had you do. And you kept doing them because you wanted her love... But she never gave it to you. The boulder kept falling back down the hill."

"Until I quit pushing the rock. And then she—"

"Abandoned you." Jackie gasped and covered her mouth. "Steven..."

He admired her insight. It was one of the things that made him fall so damn hard for her, and one of the things he missed the most. "See what I'm getting at?" he said. The knife was near his wrist now.

She frowned, "You're saying I'm like her?" and her hands curled into a fists. "You're comparing me wanting you to attend social functions to your mom wanting you stay out all night in the cold—so she could sleep with random men?"

"A few stuffy parties I could handle, man. A few. Some of 'em were even fun—especially when you secretly burned those high society headcases with me." He smirked, but it quickly decayed into a scowl. "You knew I didn't like those damn parties. You used to fuckin' respect that, so I respected your need to go to a few. But by last Christmas, you forgot all that."

"Me?" Jackie's eyes blazed with fire. "I forgot? What about you? You promised you'd go to the Ladies of Point Place party with me. You'd never broken a promise to me before. You knew what my dad did. How he..." She placed her palm above her bare breasts, over her heart. "Why did you promise when you obviously didn't want to go?"

His scowl intensified. "It wasn't just the damn LOPPS party. In the three months before, I went to five of those things with you. Five. I promised I'd go to all of 'em, and I did. But I was sick of it by Christmas. So I backed outta the sixth."

"You should have told me, Steven."

"You should've known."

"How could I?" she shouted. "All you ever have to say anymore is, 'That's cool,' or 'Whatever, Jackie.' Or how about the helpful 'I don't know' and 'Have a nice trip'? "

He sighed heavily, tiredly. "So we're back on you. That's where we always end up. Back on you. I was right..."

"Right about—" her voice caught in her throat, "right about what?"

"You don't give a shit about me. Maybe you never did."

"Do you love me?" she said, and a fraying thread inside Hyde's mind finally split apart.

"You wanna know how I feel about you?" He pressed the knife's sharp tip into forearm. His flesh opened easily as he cut a smooth "T" and "H" and "I" and a jagged "S".

"This..." he held out his arm for Jackie to see, and the letters grew red with his blood, "is how you made me feel our last year." Pain radiated from the the "S" at his wrist. It was an oozing, crimson splotch. "Just like that," he said.

"My God..." She grabbed a dishrag near the sink. He didn't stop her as she tied it tightly around his wrist. "We have to get you to the hospital."

"Finding you in Chicago with Kelso was just the end of it," he said and let her pull him from the kitchen. "You took yourself away from me and any fucking hope I had."

"I'm here now, baby. I'm with you, okay?"

She dragged him across the living room, and he kept talking. The filter on his thoughts had dissolved away. He wasn't quite himself anymore... because the sane part of him had broken off into his bloodstream. But it could still watch, still listen.

"I wake up every day, and it's the same," he said. They were outside on the Burkharts' gravel driveway now. "Nothing I do makes a damn difference. I wake up, and I wake up, and I wake up—but it's like I'm asleep, man. It's like a dream I can't break out of, a nightmare."

Jackie shoved him into the Camino's passenger seat. She was still naked but got behind the wheel. "Give me the keys," she said, and he pulled them from his pocket. "You're gonna be okay, Puddin'." The engine revved up. "You're gonna be fine."

Hyde started to laugh.