For a long time, Tom leaned in the doorway to Mike's hut, arms cross tightly over his chest, just watching him sleep. Since that afternoon he'd gone through cycles, over and over. Rage, hurt, helplessness, one into the other and back again, endlessly. There was nothing he could do for Neil now but love him. No matter how much he wished otherwise, there was no going back across years. Still. Still, there were bitter dregs of anger that even an afternoon at the shooting range hadn't shaken out of him. Leaning there, watching, smelling like GSR and smoke, something already tightly coiled in his chest pulled taunt.

"Get up," he said, voice rough from disuse. He slid into the room, slapping Mike's legs through the sheets. "I said, get up, Pinocchio."