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I kneel beside him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him in—into the only shelter I can offer. He comes apart in my arms. I feel the quiver of his muscles, the raw hitch of his breath against my skin. His tears dampen my temple. I let them. I hold him tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into his ear. “God, I’m so, so sorry…”

He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t question it. Just leans in, silent and shaking.

“I miss him,” he whispers. “I already miss him.”

“I know,” I whisper, gently stroking the back of his neck. “I’m here. Let it out, Ray. Just let it out.”

He does. Another sob tears from him, and I cry with him. Not because I knew Sam like they did, not because his loss is mine in the same way,—but because I love Ray. And watching him break like this unravels something deep in me.

So I stay.

I stay right here, in the dirt and the dusk, in the thick, unrelenting weight of grief. It doesn’t feel like enough. Maybe itnever could be. But it’s all I have to give. My presence. My arms. My heart, raw and open, holding space for his pain.

Maybe that’s all we can do sometimes—just stay. Just be near, so they don’t have to fall apart alone.

18

RAY

My blood. My brother.

He lies too still atop a towering pyre, surrounded by dried branches and solemn offerings, waiting for the fire to claim what remains and scatter his ashes across the soil he loved so fiercely.

I whisper he’s gone, again and again, a hundred times, a thousand more—and still, it won’t sink in. Sammy Crawford—our Sammy. The pride of Dawson. The fiercest warrior of us all.

He’s gone.

He fought his last battle.

He lost.

Welost.

Who—or what—he fought doesn’t matter anymore. Only the outcome remains. Final. Irrevocable. End.

Such a tiny word. Just three letters, but those letters carry the weight of an entire life ripped away. A future erased. Someendings are merciful—curtains over pain, closings on suffering. They cradle the broken and offer peace.

But not this.

This isSammy.

And Sammy wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t lost or broken. He was in love. Alive in every sense—planning a future with Erica, glowing in a way I hadn’t seen since we were kids chasing fireflies under the Dawson moon.

He called her hisSiren, said she sang a song no man could resist. He was, at long last, building something for himself. A life filled with peace, with love, with her. Now, that dream lies broken and destroyed.

I stand at the edge of the platform where we built his pyre, the heat of grief pressing from behind. Our packmates and neighbors ripple around me like shadows in the twilight. Raul steps forward, dressed in white, a color that feels too clean for grief. His hands fumble with the microphone stand, fingers twitching like he’s unsure what to do with them.

“What do you say…?” Raul’s voice is low, stripped of its usual weight. “What the hellcanyou say at times like these?”

He pauses, bowing his head and swallowing hard, trying to cling to his last bits of composure.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” his voice cracks, but he pushes on. “Sorry I wasn’t there. Sorry I wasn’t fast enough. You were the one with the words—not me. You could charm anyone, talk your way through every mess. I was fists and teeth while you had the heart. The voice. And all our hope.”

He pauses, scratching his jaw, then scans the gathering like maybe someone else might pick up the rest, take this burden from him, but no one does.

“I’d trade places with you,” he whispers, inaudible if not for the microphone. “God knows I’d take your place in a second.”