Atticus’s death didn’t stop the summer rolling by, and the sound of bees stung Dan. The long, hot nights tortured him. He used to love the smell of freshly cut grass, but after Atticus, he felt the pain of each blade as it was decapitated. Dan felt every tiny death in the world. A discarded cup, a fox killed along the roadside. The bottom of a bread bag. Completion wounded him. His skin hurt as it flaked away and died, while all around him the world came to life. Helen’s wedding passed in a blur of alcohol, Luke propping him up, his mother straightening his tie. He had walked Helen down the aisle, then Luke handed Dave the rings. It was a small wedding. Atticus should have been there, dancing with Dan. Making a speech, mocking Dave. Instead, Dan took Fitz as his plus-one and fed him marzipan and pigs in blankets. He looked at his dog when Helen and Dave shared their first dance. Fitz looked back, love shining in his eyes, tail wagging. He even wore a dicky bow. Atticus would have loved it.

Atticus.

Fitz was as good and loyal and constant as a dog could be. He didn’t leave Dan’s side, didn’t eat till Dan did, or sleep till Dan slept. He watched over his human with absolute unconditional adoration. He could smell Dan’s sorrow, licked it from his face when it came as tears, and from his bare legs when it came from running with the hope he could burst his broken heart. Fitz fitted into spaces far too small for a big dog, just so that Dan wouldn’t be alone. He left his scent all over the Beacon, dribbled Morse code for help. Dogs dropped balls at Dan’s feet in sympathy. In solidarity for his loss.

Dan didn’t count the balls. His counting had died with Atticus, and for a long time, he simply didn’t have the energy for it. He didn’t need it as a coping mechanism, because he didn’t want to cope.

Perhaps because of that, he ended up coping without it.

Atticus’s mum and dad came to see Dan before the funeral. They were nothing like the people Atticus had described. His version of them was just another of his fabrications. His mum didn’t drink and never had. His dad was tall and dark, like his son. He had the same walk and the same eyebrow waggle.

They’d sat Dan down between them and held his hands. Told him Atticus had tried to kill himself before and would have tried again if he hadn’t been successful. They told him that, like terminal cancer, Atticus’s mind had slowly mutated, the sad thoughts splitting and multiplying inside him. Dan had shouted at them then, demanded to know why they had left him, why they had abandoned him. Why they had given up.