It shouldn’t matter, the knowledge that Waylon McAllister is still here, the closest he’s been to me in ten and a half years. It shouldn’t be this shocking and world-flipping and borderline nauseating. But I guess the whole out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing only works so long as the matter at hand isn’t being thrown right in front of your face. He’s here. I’m back in Shiloh. And Waylon. Is. Still. Fucking. Here.
