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A Worse Idea 38

The day after Shade had camped out in Anne’s room, Prometheus lay on a lounge chair. The Sun beat down on his face, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, wearing his sunglasses, he quite enjoyed it.

He tilted the bottle back, letting the beer slide into his throat.

A good day. He had to remember it was a good day, because he was here: so far from dirty streets and strung-out freaks.

He’d worked hard to get here. He remembered to appreciate all that hard work.

Still, it was hard, given what’d happened with Katie. He’d talked it through with the girl’s mother, he’d gone over everything that’d happened, and ultimately the grieving process couldn’t go on forever.

Of course, it did go on forever, in a way. But there had to be more. He knew he had to move from the grieving process to the living process. Learning to live with Katie’s death was the most important thing in the world, in that moment.

It was in that moment — when he was trying to stop thinking about what he’d done wrong, thinking about how he might’ve been able to save Katie by looking after he better when she was a kid, offering better advice — that Anne’s face popped into his view.

She hovered over him, looking a little haggard. Of course, she always looked a little haggard: her short red hair was dirty more often than not, her clothes sort of wrinkled, and her eyes often glimmered with a hint of desperation.

“Have you seen Shade?” Anne asked.

“No,” Prometheus said. “Stanley said she didn’t come in today. He’s tending the bar himself right now.”

“I thought I was going to see her last night, but I didn’t.” Anne bit her lip. “I’m worried she might’ve gone missing.”

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