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“Shane! Shane, look at me. I have you,” he says.

He fights the buckle and it finally gives for him. The strap comes off my chest and the cut there opens wider without it. He makes a sound I have never heard come from him before. He pulls my shirt together, trying to cover the wound, and his palm finds my throat and comes away red.

“Stay with me. I am here. I am here, Shane.”

I can see him. I can hear him.

“I thought it was you,” I say.

“I know.”

“I wanted it to be you.”

“I know. Don’t. Save it. Look at me.”

I try to lift my hand. It barely works. I find his cheek anyway. Warm. Clean, except for my blood.

“I love you,” I say.

It is easier than the rest of it. It should have been the first thing I told him.

His mouth shakes. He puts his hand over mine and holds it there. He does not let go.

“Shane. Stay. Please. I am right here. Look at me. Just look at me.”

I do.

I have looked at him in the mirror for a year and never had this. His face has never been this close to mine before. His voice breaking. His hands on me because he wants me to live, not because I asked him to touch me.

“I waited,” I tell him. “That was the job, and I was good at it.”

“Don’t you do that. Stay. Shane. Stay with me. I have you. I have you,” I hear him say.

The bay goes quiet around his voice. I keep my eyes on him as best I can, trying to keep them open. My hand is on his cheek, and I keep it there for as long as I can. When my fingers slip, he catches them and puts them back, and I try to help him hold them there.

“Rhys.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

There is more I want to tell him. That I would wait again. That I am not sorry I unlocked the door. The words do not come. I have his face. I have him saying my name.

That is enough.

That’s all I need.

Then even that goes.

13

Rhys Preswood

Friday, October 31st. After Shane.

He is still in my hands when they find us.

Shane’s face is against my palm. His mouth is open, and there is nothing coming out of it. The seat is wet. My shirt is wet.