Sometimes recovery looks like Jeremy’s hands in Jean’s hair, forehead pressed to his, whispering into the shared breath between them I’m here, he’s dead, he can never touch you again
Sometimes recovery looks like Kevin’s head in Thea’s lap, shuddering as she strokes the tears from his burning eyes, telling him what he did to you was poison, he’s dead, and I will keep you safe
Sometimes recovery looks like Andrew’s palm on Neil’s chest, unyielding against his gasping heart, and Andrew saying Abram, and Neil asking, of someone else, He’s dead? and Andrew saying Yes.