Eruptive emotion pushes out of me, so loud I feel it must burst from the house and echo through the cave. As if it cries with me. And everything, everything, comes spilling out. Like a broken bottle, its contents leaked past the cracks. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel full again. I sob and I grieve, and it’s not subtle or quiet, but a violent wracking of mourning that digs itself out of me and lands in a messy, hurtful heap. But all the while, Slade squeezes my hand and Digby stands watch. I may be empty, but I am not alone. And that, at least, is something.
