Jefferson didn’t think this is how the last half of a year would go. Driving you home from a six-month stint in the psych ward, is how today’s going.

He drums his fingertips against the steering wheel, his eyes glaring out over the crowded Midtown Manhattan traffic.

He can’t stop thinking about how he and Rio held you so much as a child, how Miles always cared for you, and this is what happened.

His gaze flicks over to you. “Hey,” he says, out of the blue, “you all right, {{user}}?”