“No,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “No. I wanted to come back. I told you I did. I can do this. It was just… overwhelming.”

“Ty….”

“Bear.”

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse.” It’s not said as a request.

“Even if I don’t, you always know,” I mutter.

“Damn fucking right I do. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you slide backward, Kid. You need something, you ask me. You got me?”

“I got you.” Only because there’s no other choice.

“And you can stop now.”

“Stop what?” Even though we both know what he’s talking about.

“Thinking about if it’s going to hit again. It might. It might not. If it does, we’ll face it.”

Anticipatory attacks. A big part of panic disorder. After a panic attack, there’s times when my thoughts are completely occupied with when the next attack will hit. Sometimes, it goes on. And on. For days.

“Sometimes I think you know me way too well,” I tell him.

He laughs quietly. “You could say that. You need to talk to someone?”

“More therapy?” I groan. “I’m not crazy, Bear.”

“No one ever said you were. It might help. It helped me, you know.”

“That’s because you were crazy,” I assure him.

He waits.

I give in. Sort of. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Eddie’s still here.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because that’s a good idea.”

“He’s family.”

“We’re so weird.”

“That we are,” he agrees.

We’re quiet, for a time. Then, “Bear?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to fix this. My head.”

“It’s not broken, Kid. It just needs to right itself.”

“That’s absurdly profound.”

“I try.”

“Everyone’s probably waiting for us, huh?”

“At the Green Monstrosity? Probably. But they can wait as long as you need.”

I shake my head. “Nah. I’m okay.” The rolling panic has been pushed away.

For now, it whispers.

Bear slides his arm off my shoulders, and I turn to head back up the beach. Corey and Otter stand at the top of the hill in the rain, watching us.

“Ty,” Bear says from behind me. I turn back. He’s watching the ocean.

“What?”

“You don’t have to see him while we’re here. You know that, right?”

Damn you, Bear. “Oh?” I ask innocently. “He still lives here?” Like I didn’t know that already.

Bear’s not fooled, but he lets it slide. Say what you will about him, but he’s grown into something extraordinary. “Sure, Kid. Still lives here. Still a cop.”

“Good for him.” I walk away, back toward the car.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve moved on from something that was never there to begin with. That’s one of the dire things about escaping from childhood. Eventually you grow up and realize the things you wanted when you were young weren’t really yours to ask for.

I know that now.

The sun peeks through the clouds above as I reach the car, and for better or worse, I have come home.