and Dylan

and Siobhan

and everyone else

stupid enough to love you."

But instead,

Mickey's shoulders rise

and fall

in the longest,

fiercest

breath

I've seen him take in months.

He closes his eyes

and pulls the head of the guitar

toward his own,

presses the pegs

against his forehead,

so hard,

that when he turns

to look straight at me,

not through me,

there's a dent

in his skin.

"Thank you."

And then.

(Uh-oh.) He starts to cry.

I haven't seen this

since the night I died.

I don't know what to do.

But Krista does.

She kneels before him

and takes the guitar from his lap.

He sinks forward

into her arms,

adding his tears

to the water from her hair

speckling her new shirt.