I am better than this.

Think, Tyson. Think. You know this.

I can’t.

You can.

No. There’s an earthquake.

There is no earthquake.

The ocean. It’s here. It’s angry.

It’s not.

It is. It is.

It’s not. It’s calm. The tide is out. The waves are low. The saltwater brushes against your feet. Everything is right. The ground does not move.

It will shift apart. It will pull me down.

No, it won’t. It tugs on your toes, that’s it. You take in a deep breath. What do you smell?

Salt. Seaweed. Brine.

What do you hear?

Rain. Birds. Fucking seagulls.

That’s right. Fucking seagulls. What do you feel?

Rain. Sand. Water.

And me. Do you feel me?

“Yes,” I whisper. “Your arm.”

“Where?” Bear asks, his voice breaking through the haze.

“On my shoulder.”

“Because I’m here.”

“Yeah.”

“What do we do?”

“Breathe.”

“Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it, then.”

I do. I take in a breath and my throat whistles and my lungs fill with Seafare, Oregon, a smell I promised myself I would never experience again. My lungs fill, and it’s like muscle memory. I can taste the air on my tongue, and all I remember is Bear, Bear, Bear, and Kid, Kid, Kid. I’m not the Kid anymore, though Bear and Otter still call me that. I’m beyond that. I’m Tyson. I’m Ty. I’m not some fucking Kid anymore.

It’s this place. It’s Seafare. The ocean.

My throat opens slightly, and I’m able to suck in a deeper breath.

“Good,” Bear says. “Hold it.”

I do.

“Let it out.”

I do.”

“Again.”

I do.

Eventually, my vision clears. I’m not surprised to see the stretch of beach we’re standing on is the one where Bear and Otter were married, where Mrs. P’s ashes were spread.

“S-she was thrown,” I say. “R-remember? Back into our f-f-faces.” I’m really cold.

“I remember,” Bear said. “Her last bit of fun, I think.”

“You think so? Y-you think that was her?”

Bear sighs. “I do. I don’t know why, but it just seems like something Mrs. Paquinn would have done, you know? To tell us to not be so sad over her.”

“Yeah.”

“Bear?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not… I’m not right. You know.”

His arm tightens around my shoulder. “You’re more right than you could possibly know, Ty.”

“I thought I was over this.”

“It has been a while, huh?”

“Months. At least.” That he knows of.

“It’s a lot, I know.”

“What?”

“Coming back here. For all the shit we’ve been through, I know it’s a lot.”

“I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard.”

“We can leave,” he says. “Say the word, Kid. Say the word and we get back in that car and I swear to you that you’ll never have to come here for as long as you live.”

I’m embarrassed now. God, what he’s had to put up with. On top of everything else he’s gone through. The late nights spent in the bathtub all the way up until only a couple of years ago. The behavior and cognitive therapy, which led to the diagnosis. Followed by the antidepressants that I didn’t want nor thought I needed and that only ended up making things worse. The antianxiety drugs that made me a drone. Benzodiazepines that I began to crave. The craving that turned into something so much more. All of which I finally dropped because I am Tyson Fucking Thompson. I have an IQ of 158. I became a member of MENSA at the age of thirteen. I graduated high school at fifteen. I don’t need this. I am not fucking crazy. I am better. I am bigger. I am stronger.