John closed his eyes. What if it is her? He saw it again, the moment he always saw: the shuddering suit, Charlie trapped inside as it crunched and jerked—and then her hand, and the blood. She couldn’t have survived that. But another image came to mind, unbidden—Dave, who became Springtrap: he had survived what happened to Charlie. He had worn the yellow rabbit suit like it was a second skin, and had paid for it twice: the scars that covered his torso like a shirt of gruesome lace told the story of one narrow escape, and the second … Charlie had killed him when she tripped the spring locks, or so they all believed. No one could have survived what they saw. And yet, he had returned. For an instant, John pictured Charlie, scarred and broken, yet, miraculously, alive. “But that doesn’t sound like the person Jessica saw,” John spoke clearly to Theodore. “Someone broken and scarred; that’s not who Jessica was describing.” He shook his head. “That’s not the person I saw at the diner.”

The next day—she looked like she’d just stepped out of a fairy tale. John caught himself and shook his head, trying to focus on the present. He really didn’t know what had happened to Charlie. He felt himself edging toward the glimmer of hope. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s all right. It was what he’d wished for—what anyone wishes for in the throes of grief: Let it not have happened. Let everything be all right. The precarious ledge became solid ground, and John felt a weight lifted, his neck and shoulders relaxing from a cramped position he had not been aware of. The fatigue from so many months of misspent sleep caught up to him all at once.

He looked at Theodore; he was clutching the rabbit’s head so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He slowly released the toy, propping it up on the pillow.

“I’m not going,” he said. “I was never really considering it, I just wanted Jessica to leave me alone.” He held his breath for a moment, then let out a deep sigh. “Right?” He said, his tone becoming more agitated. “What would I even say to these people?” Theodore stared at him blankly.

“Damn.” John sighed.

*  *  *

The fluttering in John’s stomach grew worse the closer he came to Clay’s house. He checked the dashboard clock—it was only six. Maybe no one will be there yet, he thought, but as he made his way down the winding road toward their house, cars lined both sides of the street for half a block. John wedged his car between a pickup truck and a rusted sedan almost as beat-up as his own, then got out and headed toward the house.