“Looks it.” He shrugs.

“All right, then.” I make my way to him. He drops the axe, then crouches down and laces his fingers together, a human step. I look at him underneath me, and God, I wish I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . feel all those things I feel right now.

“I’m heavy,” I say.

“You’re full of shit.” He smiles tiredly. “But not heavy at all. Now, hop.”

I do. I hop across the fence and fall on my ass on the other side a little clumsily. It draws a breathless grunt out of me. This is the first time in three weeks that I have moved my body. Joe hops across the fence easily, but not before dropping the axe to the other side. Together, we amble deeper into the junkyard, our path illuminated by dimly lit lampposts.

We stop by a dirty, wheelless piece of junked red car. Joe throws me a look.

“This has been my favorite spot ever since I moved to Salem. I came here the night I found out about you and Dom. And the night after Dom died. I come here . . . a lot more often than I should.”

“What do you do here?” I ask.

He raises the axe and smashes the backseat window of the car. “This is for all the Red Sox games I won’t see with my brother anymore.”

The glass shatters noisily. I jump back, yelping.

“And this is for all the things I won’t be able to say to him anymore.” He smashes the roof of the car, creating a huge dent in it.

“Your turn.” He passes me the axe. I let it hover between us for a beat. Finally, I take it. It is heavy in my hand. I smile to myself. This was an ongoing joke for months between Dominic and me. Finally, I have an axe in my hand . . . and he will never know about it.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “This is for all the kisses I will not kiss you again, Dom.”

I smash the axe against the front window. It cracks but doesn’t shatter. Joe is standing behind me, taking it all in. He is nodding, somber.

“And this is for all the kisses you gave her.”

This time I do break the window. And it feels good. Powerful. It feels . . . right.

“And this is for Mom dying.” I aim at the back door and dent it.

“And for my fucked-up relationship with Dad and Renn.” I break the beam lights.

“And for all!” Slam. “The time.” Crash. “I felt less and weird and not enough and too much!” Bang.

It is only after I break apart the entire car, breathless and sweating like a maniac, that I notice Joe is clapping. The winter chill licks at my bones under my peacoat. I swivel toward him and hand him the axe. “Your turn.”