John thought of the way he drove home from work—or, had until this morning—the way he avoided ever driving past her house, or the site of Freddy Fazbear’s. Maybe Charlie had things she wanted to avoid. Maybe she just wanted to be different.

Maybe she wanted to change, like you did. When you think of that moment, what it did to you—what must it have done to her? What kind of nightmares do you have, Charlie? He was seized by a sudden, visceral desire to ask her, and for the first time he allowed himself to meet her eyes. His stomach jolted as he did, his heart racing. Tentatively, she smiled at him, and he smiled back, unconsciously mirroring her, but something frigid twitched inside him. Those aren’t her eyes.

John shifted his gaze, a calm coming over him; Charlie looked momentarily confused. “Charlie,” John said carefully. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you, before you—were trapped in the suit?” She held his gaze for a moment, then shook her head.

“I’m sorry, John,” she said. “I don’t remember a lot about that night, whole pieces are just—missing. I remember being in the suit—I passed out, I think for hours.”

“So, you don’t remember?” he repeated gravely. It seemed impossible that she could have forgotten. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

“Were you hurt?” he asked brusquely.

She nodded silently, her eyes filling again with tears, and she hugged herself; this time she didn’t look cold, she looked like she was in pain. Maybe she was. John took a step closer to her, wanting suddenly, desperately, to promise her that everything would be all right. But then her eyes met his again, and he stopped, stepped back. She extended a hand, but he didn’t take it, and again she crossed her arms over her body.

“John, would you meet me tomorrow?” she asked steadily.

“Why?” he said before he could stop himself, but she did not react.

“I just want to talk. Give me a chance.” Her voice rose shakily, and he nodded.

“Sure. Yeah, I’ll meet you tomorrow.” He paused. “That same place, okay?” he added carefully, waiting to see how she would reply.

“The Italian place? Our first date?” she said easily and gave a gentle smile; her tears seemed to have stopped. “Around six?”