Somehow, I found myself outside of town, across the street from the woods where the Church lay rotting. I parked my car on the other side, away from the trees. I hadn’t been back on that side since Kansas and I had pulled ourselves out. But there was some solace on the other side. A small wooden cross. Constantine hadn’t made it to the road, but Kansas thought it’d be good for us to have a representation of him somewhere so we could properly grieve. It helped.
