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He’s even quieter. He doesn’t throw things. Doesn’t scream. At least not when the sun is up. He smiles when I need him to, says the right things at the right times. But I see it. I feel it in him. This dull, unbearable ache he carries like an old injury no one can fix.

At night, when he thinks I’m asleep, he slips out of bed. I’ve followed, careful not to make a sound. I’ve watched from the bedroom doorway or through the curtain. Seen him standing on the balcony, barefoot, with a picture frame clutched in his hands. I see the way his fingers tremble. The way his shoulders shake.

The photo is always the same—him and Sam, leaning on a silver motorcycle, both of them grinning like idiots. He talks to it. Talks to him.

“There she is, Sammy,” Ray whispers, voice hoarse and thick with unshed tears. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize her. She’s the custom baby you and I were working on…”

His voice breaks. He turns the frame around and presses it against the railing.

“I’m thinking of naming her after you,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. I won’t ride her. Hurts too much even thinking about it. Now that Erica’s leaving... I’ll put her in your living room. She deserves to be there.”

And then he does this thing—he lifts his head and stares up at the sky, his eyes glassy and raw. I don’t know if he’s talking to God, to his parents, or to the stars. Maybe all of them. Maybe none.

All I know is that the man I met in March—the one who made me laugh until my sides hurt, who once tried to race a hawk on his motorcycle—is gone. He’s still here, flesh and bone, but his spark’s been smothered by pain. He’s learning to survive grief without destroying the people still standing beside him.

The days pass with little to no change. Until Monica. Of course it’s Monica. The ever-logical doctor with the soul of a teacher. A healer. Monica summons us with a single sentence that’s really a command.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight. You won’t want to miss this—and by ‘this,’ I don’t mean my tuna casserole. Be there.”

She doesn’t smile when she says it. Doesn’t even blink before she turns back to the pot on Raul’s stovetop, her white apron cinched tight around her waist. It’s Monica’s version of a battle cry. You just have to know how to hear it. Have to know Monica.

Erica almost didn’t come. She packed her bags the day before, ready to vanish back into the safe, predictable world of New York. I begged her to stay—not for me, but for her. Because I know what loneliness tastes like—bitter and metallic, like copper pennies and regret. I remember all my lonely weekends waiting for the mountain to bring my friends back to me.

Now she’s the one stranded on the edge of heartbreak—and I can’t let her drown in it alone. All I could manage was convincing her to stay one more night, but even that wasn’t easy. She’s not just sad—she’s sullen. She’s going through the motions, but there’s no spark left in her.

The five of us gather in Raul’s cabin. Monica stirs the pot’s contents like it’s an ancient ritual. Whatever this is, it’s not just dinner. She has a plan—I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

“Go sit,” she says. “Give me a minute.”

Ray paces. “Your friend’s a weird lady.”

“I heard that,” Monica calls, not turning around.

I shrug. “You get used to her.”

“Patience is a virtue, people,” she says dryly. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Every second I sit here, my appetite dies a little more,” Raul mutters.

Monica doesn’t rise to the bait. She ties off the apron, covers the pot, and walks into the living room with that familiar no-nonsense stride—like she’s about to change the course of history.

“Do you remember how much Sam weighed?” Monica asks.

Ray furrows his brow. “Two hundred and five? Maybe two-ten?”

“Very good,” she says. “Actually, it was two-oh-seven. I remember because I insisted all of you come in for a physical and he was weighed. And yes—call me weird—but I weighed the wolf you brought in before the cremation.”

“Yeah. You had four guys lift him onto the workshop scale. None of us understood why, but…” Ray trails off, shifting uncomfortably.

“That wolf was fourteen pounds lighter than Sam,” she says, stepping closer. Her voice cuts sharper now, deliberate. The room stills. “That’s not a small difference. I didn’t say anything earlier because weight can fluctuate—especially post-trauma, and I’m not sure about the shift. But this morning, I got the bloodwork back. I compared that wolf’s DNA to Sam’s.”

She reaches into her briefcase, pulls out two documents, and holds them up like cards in a poker game. I don’t need to read the charts. Just the bold print at the bottom:

NO GENETIC MATCH FOUND.

Raul blinks. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“I ran it four times,” Monica says, calm and certain. “Different labs. Same result.”