Bucket List

I was dying. I had no illusions any more, and all that was extraneous was pushed away, out of mind where it belonged. I had, primarily for the benefit of everyone else, undertaken every course of treatment, tried every avenue, but now it was official.

“I’m so sorry, Myka, but the treatment hasn’t been successful. I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of our treatment options.” The doctor gave me his practised “sympathetic” look. “We need to start talking about palliative care.”

I wasn’t surprised. I could feel the pain growing outward in new directions, the insidious spread of the cells that would eventually consume me. I had endured all of the treatments, which were much worse than the disease. But now it was time to let go. Not something I’d ever been good at, but something changed in me that day. After breaking the news to Pete, to Claudia, to Steve, to my little family, I had retreated from their tears and overwhelming feelings to my room. I was sitting cross legged on my bed, reading one of my favourite books (hers, of course), when I noticed a new freckle on my wrist. It struck me suddenly that I would never have any more freckles, would never wrinkle and crinkle and grey and become that rosy-cheeked grandmother I had imagined. That time was no longer on my side, if it had ever been. And as it always did when I thought of time, the thought of her came, unbidden.

I tried, after Yellowstone, to get my thoughts on paper, to organise my confused thoughts and work out why she had broken me so completely. I had written epics about the texture of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, all of which I consigned to the fireplace as soon as they were written. But overblown as my words may have been, I could not help but feel that everything about her belonged in a poem. The crinkle of her eyes as she smiled, the smirk and swagger, and the desperate pain in her eyes...I couldn’t forget any detail. And suddenly I had to be with her.

The flight was interminable. I fidgeted, chewed my nails, scratched at my skin until I was finally free to drive, to move.

She answered the door and stood like a vision in the quiet of the afternoon.  Her eyes widened in shock, taking in the short hair under my beanie hat, but she didn’t say anything.

“Is he here?” I heard myself saying, in a hoarse voice I barely recognised.

She shook her head, regarding me silently with dark eyes.

“Adelaide?”

“They’re gone for the weekend.” It was the first time I had heard her voice in months, and I didn’t realise, until then, how much I craved hearing it.

I walked past her, through the doorway into the dark interior of her perfect normal life.

She made tea in the kitchen, bringing it in to the living room where she’d broken me for the second time. She handed the cup to me wordlessly, apparently waiting for me to begin. The silence between us was thick, unyielding. I took a breath to steady myself. She was next to me on the couch, too far away and too close.

“I’m dying.”

She stared at me, perfect eyes wide in disbelief, mouth slightly open. I had never seen that expression on her face before. She was normally so unflappable that even her own death hadn’t fazed her – she had just smiled softly as she said goodbye. (Artie had been kind enough to eventually share that memory with me, through the use of an artefact that reminded me of the Pensieve in Harry Potter.)

“What happened?” she asked finally, in a whisper. Her eyes were dark, empty.

“Ovarian cancer. I have a few weeks.”

Silence again. I couldn’t look at her, so I turned away and lost myself in the surface of the tea, honeyed and sweet. I gasped in surprise when her hand touched me softly, hesitantly. Her fingers grazed the fuzz that peeked out from under the hat at the nape of my neck.

“Myka.” I could hear the tears in her rich, thick voice.

“I should have been yours.” The words left my lips before my brain had a chance to interfere. “I would have been.”

I walked out without another word. Right then, I think I would have broken into a thousand pieces if she’d spoken, tried to explain Nate, Adelaide. If she’d tried to tell me that we shouldn’t be together, for whatever bullshit reason she’d told herself that led her here. Maybe she was still punishing herself, maybe she was still on her cross; I don’t know. Right then, if she’d said a word, I might have put my fist through a wall.

I checked in to a hotel nearby and I got drunk in my room on the contents of the mini-bar. I never normally drink because of Pete, but it seemed appropriate, just then. I was well on my way to shit-faced – I’d already passed buzzed, merry, whatever you wanted to call it. I hadn’t spoken to anyone but I knew if I did I would be slurring my words. The room was dark; it seemed fitting, to match my mood.

She slipped into the room silently, not saying a word. I just looked at her expressionlessly. Maybe she’d slipped another transmitter into my pocket, I don’t know. But she found me and she picked the lock or worked some technical mojo she’d probably learned from Claudia to get into my room without a key card.

She put her bag on the chair and, without taking her eyes off me, she stripped down to her underwear. She crawled up the bed towards me and it wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t sensual – it wasn’t any of those things. It was desperate and it was sad and as she hovered above me and took the glass of scotch away to put it on the nightstand, I ran my fingers through her hair for the first time.

It was that desire - after she’d saved me with the grappler – that made me realise how I was beginning to feel about her, all that time ago. Because I looked at her hair and I wanted to put my fingers through it. And that wasn’t something a secret service agent should be thinking about a potential enemy. It wasn’t something I should have been thinking about another woman. And yet, there I was, still out of breath from the panic and from her crushing grip around my midsection, staring at her hair and wondering what it would feel like between my fingers.

Now I knew. It felt cool and smooth like satin or silk and I had never really felt anything like it before. No wonder it always looked so perfect. I could feel the weight of her body against me, warm and somehow crushing, because she was with him. I realised that I was staring at her hair and then my eyes met hers. She was looking at me in that way she always did – intense and dark and mysterious – and as it always had, it made my stomach flip over.

“Myka,” she whispered, her eyes full of pain, and I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk. She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes holding mine, and then she nodded, once.

She kissed me hesitantly and softly, but even so it was the most intimate thing I’d ever experienced. Because what did I have to hide, or to lose, now? Her fingers were in my hair – what was left of it, anyway. It was a fuzzy cap of white that had begun to curl as it got longer. It wouldn’t have enough time to get much longer, though. That thought, combined with the feeling of her touching me so lovingly, made me shiver and then I started to cry. I hadn’t really cried since the initial diagnosis. Abigail was always saying that I should let my feelings out, that I should cry over what I was losing, that it wasn’t healthy. The last time she said that I swore at her because what difference did it make now whether I was emotionally healthy or not, when my body was so emphatically not healthy?

Helena tried to pull away when she felt the moisture on her face but I grabbed the back of her neck, I clung to her and I kissed her with all the pain and desperation I was feeling, and something rose up in me, all of the emotion that she had coaxed from my cautious heart since we met, and after that it was all the things it shouldn’t have been – hard, fierce, a little violent. Our first time should have been romantic and beautiful. I’d always imagined her taking care of me, showing me what to do. I imagined that I would be nervous, to make love to a woman for the first time, but I wasn’t nervous, or worried. I just wanted what I wanted and I took it. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the fact that I knew that any embarrassment wouldn’t matter a jot in a few weeks’ time. Whatever it was, we made love to each other desperately rather than lovingly, as it should have been. Afterwards she clung to me, weeping, saying my name brokenly. I held her and I endured as she cried for what we could have been. She cried until she couldn’t anymore and then she slept, and for a time I watched her, memorising every inch of her face, her closed eyelids. I kissed her forehead gently and slipped out before she woke. I knew that, if I had my way, we would never speak again.

I took a flight back to South Dakota. Before we took off I contacted Dr Calder and Abigail and asked them to set up a room at the B&B for me with a hospital bed, so that everyone could say their goodbyes. I also emailed the local funeral home to set the arrangements in motion. When I got back to the B&B, I thanked Abigail and Dr Calder, and settled myself into my new room. When Dr Calder was out of the room I stole several vials of morphine and a syringe from her bag. I would give it a few days, but once it became too painful I was going to do this on my terms. I was already wasted to almost nothing. I could barely eat and it was more than likely that I would suffer a bowel obstruction sooner rather than later because of the spread of the cancer. I knew what it was like to be in pain – the last few months had been a lesson in how much pain and humiliation a person could endure. I had no desire to die in even more horrible pain while my friends were forced to watch.

The room was pleasant and cosy and they had brought my bookshelves and belongings downstairs for me. Having a ground floor room made sense, given that they would be carrying me out of there soon enough. There was no sense in adding stairs into the equation. I didn’t want to see my parents, to see Tracy. Things had improved between us but I could no more be open with them about all this than I could tell them I was in love with HG Wells, the (female) father of science fiction. I wrote them letters, each of them, to explain why I hadn’t told them I had cancer, to explain why I’d chosen to do things this way. They wouldn’t understand, no matter what I told them, because they didn’t understand me – they never had. I wasn’t bitter about that, I just didn’t want to waste any more of my limited time dealing with it.

I wrote a letter to Helena. I didn’t want to. I was so mad at her that I didn’t want to explain anything, but the decent part of me knew that it wasn’t fair to just die, to just leave and let her feel like crap for the rest of her life. She spent so much of her time blaming herself about pretty much everything, I didn’t want to add to it, no matter how much responsibility she actually bore for breaking my heart. I apologised for what I’d done, for leaving her the way I did, but I told her I didn’t want to talk about all that had gone before, how we’d parted in Boone the first time. I told her that I loved her and that I hoped she would have a long and happy life, that she shouldn’t feel bad about anything. I probably meant it about 50%. A darker part of me wanted her to break the world in two in revenge for my death, the way she’d wanted to do for Christina. But that part of me, that dark, broken part – that was my anger at life for giving me cancer when all I’d ever tried to do was make the world a better place. All I got in return was a dead boyfriend, an almost girlfriend who’d rejected me for a ‘normal’ life without even having the decency to tell me about it first, and an incurable disease even though I worked in a place full of magical artefacts.  I sealed up the envelopes and I left them in the top drawer of the little cabinet they’d put in the room for me to put my books and things on. They would find them after I’d gone.

I spent most of my time with Pete and Claudia, after that. Artie came in and out of my room, harrumphing and never quite looking me in the eye. Steve stayed back, just coming in when I was alone, knowing that it was Pete and Claudia who knew me best. Abigail stayed back too most of the time, just popping in every now and then to check if I needed anything – food, drink, conversation. The latter I could definitely do without. Pete and Claudia seemed to want to reminisce about every snag we’d ever undertaken together, and all too often Helena’s name was mentioned. If Pete noticed that I flinched each time anyone said it, he was kind enough not to mention it. Claudia did notice, and after a while she began to fall silent, more and more often, rather than filling the spaces with her usual witticisms. A few days after I moved into the hospital room, I was beginning to wane. The pain was worse and Dr Calder was starting to give me larger doses of morphine as a matter of necessity. I noticed, even through the drug haze, that Claudia wasn’t there as often as she had been. I asked Artie, one day, if she was okay. He avoided my eyes, and said she was fine, and that things were happening at the Warehouse that needed her attention. I should have realised, then, but I just let it go. I figured that if she couldn’t bear seeing me like this, I couldn’t very well blame her. And I had no intention of letting it go on for much longer. I decided that, whenever I saw her next, I would try to be sober and alert and then I would make it the last time she had to see me. It was time. I was tired, I was suffering, and it was past time. Pete and I had already said our goodbyes – he kissed my cheek and nodded at me seriously each time he left my room, just in case it was the last time.

The following day I waved Dr Calder away when she approached with her bag.

“No drugs today. Not yet. I want to speak to Claudia.”

Claudia didn’t appear for another few hours, by which time I was in agony. I managed to hide it from Pete, who was keeping me company, but eventually I had to go into my little bathroom and throw up, it hurt so much. I was determined to be present for Claudia one last time, however, so she would have at least one more memory of me as myself before I left her.

When she came in, she wouldn’t look at me. I was propped up with pillows but I was mostly upright. We talked for a little while about what she was doing at the Warehouse, but she wouldn’t talk about it except in vague terms, so I gave up asking about it. Pete was avoiding looking me in the eye, too. I just let it all go and said what I had waited to say to her.

“Listen, Claud – you know I love you, right?” I said, leaning forward a little and taking her hand. She looked at me warily.

“Yeah…”

“I just want you to know that I have done everything to stay here, to be here for you. To see the amazing woman I know you’re going to grow into.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away angrily.

“I…I know, Mykes. I hate this…but I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been here, but…” she trailed off, more tears making their way down her cheeks and smearing her eyeliner.

“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t, not really. I knew it was hard for her being around someone so ill, in a room that looked so much like a hospital, after her losing her family so traumatically. But I had still thought she would want to be here as much as possible, to say goodbye. I wasn’t hurt – I’m not sure I had the capacity to be hurt at that point. I was drained of emotion after my time with Helena, not to mention the small fact that I was dying.

We stayed like that for a long time, just holding hands, not talking. Dr Calder came in after a while and raised an eyebrow at me questioningly. I nodded, defeated, and she injected a large dose of morphine into my IV. The relief almost made me weep. I managed to tell Claudia again that I loved her, and then I guess I fell asleep. It was fully my intention, once Claudia left, to pump my IV full of the stolen morphine so that I could drift off painlessly. I realise it might sound like the coward’s way out, but after the endless treatments, the illness, everything I had endured, I had nothing left. I was dying and it mattered to me how I did that. I didn’t have much in the way of choice left, but that, I wanted to control. I didn’t want to weaken and fade and scream until they had to pump enough morphine into me to kill me anyway. I wanted to go quickly, painlessly.

My friends had other plans. When I woke I was in the Warehouse, and I was in pain. So much pain. The morphine was wearing off and I was in Pete’s arms. I could feel this new, more intense pain in my abdomen beginning to burn through me and that’s when I realised that someone was cutting into me with a knife. I could only just keep my eyes open, and as I looked at my abdomen, at the knife, I saw a hand wielding it. The hand on the knife wasn’t familiar, and it was being guided by a smaller, thinner one clad in a purple glove. I think I heard myself scream before I passed out from shock.

I woke up two days later, in my own bed, in my old room. I could tell it was my bed because it has this loose spring that digs into my lower back, just above my ass. I wasn’t in pain. I felt…different. I was tired. But not how I had been; not that drained, dragging tiredness that the disease and the drugs brought with them. I was just tired, like I’d run for too long the day before. I took a deep breath and my stomach didn’t hurt. I moved my head slightly and realised that my long hair was caught underneath my shoulders. I had long hair. Something wasn’t right about that, but I was a little too sluggish to work out what. I began to think about opening my eyes, and as I tried to move them I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Myka?”

It was a whisper, in case I wasn’t awake, I supposed. I opened my eyes cautiously. It was dim inside my room and I was almost buried under the sheets and blankets and pillows that were piled around me. The voice was Helena’s. I turned to look at her, my eyebrow raised in confusion. What the hell was I doing here? I did notice, however, that she looked exhausted. Her face was drawn, her eyes heavily shadowed and her clothes rumpled. For once she looked less than put together and I had an awful thought. I coughed to clear my throat.

“Did you…did you use Mary Mallon’s butcher knife?”

She nodded, but when my mouth opened to yell at her she held up her hand.

“Let me explain, before you freak out on me,” she said, and as she knew it would, that stopped me in my tracks. Because since when did HG Wells speak like that? Those were Claudia’s words, I was sure. I nodded for her to continue, one eyebrow raised, and my teeth gritted.

“After you…when you left Boone,” she paused to take a breath, her face pained. “I called Claudia, and we spoke for some time. We decided to see if there was anything we could do, artefact related or otherwise, to prolong your life, or preferably to save it. I came here five days ago. I’ve been staying in my room in the Dead Agent’s Vault, with Arthur’s permission. We worked on several ideas, and discarded most of them straightaway. Claudia, however, came up with an idea. What if we could use Mary Mallon’s knife without transferring the effects? Or rather, what if we transferred your illness to someone who was not, technically, alive? It took some time, and several different artefacts combined with a nifty little piece of technology that Claudia and I designed to unBronze part, but not all, of a body for a short time. The hand, to be specific.”

My mouth fell open. Had they…?

“Yes, Myka. We partially unBronzed one of the evilest people this earth has ever had the misfortune to house, gave them your cancer, and sealed them back up in their tomb. They will never know, and if by some incredible misfortune they are let out, they will die very shortly after. And not one of us, least of all you, should have any problem with that whatsoever. Your cancer is now residing in a state of suspended animation within the body of someone who fully deserves it, should they ever be released from their prison. The Regents agreed and fully endorsed our actions, for a change. Mrs Frederic was most persuasive, I understand.”

I stared at her for a moment, my heart thundering. I had thought, because of her pallor, her unkempt clothes, that she had taken it for me.

“I thought you used it. You look awful,” I managed.

She smiled wryly.

“Thank you, my darling. I do, rather, don’t I? I’m simply tired, however. I haven’t slept for more than a few hours at a time since you left my side in Boone.”

I nodded, taking deep breaths. It was nice to be able to do that, I realised. I don’t think I’d taken a deep breath for months.

“I know you well enough to realise that, had I used the butcher knife myself and taken your illness, you would never have forgiven me. And after…after our night together, I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me that way again – the way you looked at me that night on Nathan’s driveway.”

“What way?” I asked quietly.

“Like I had broken your heart and given you back the shards.”

I stared at her for the longest time. I couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. If she had died in my place – I think I would have died anyway. I would never have forgiven her – she was right about that. To watch her die again, just so I could live? It was unthinkable.

I lifted the bedcovers in invitation, looking at her steadily.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She pulled off her jacket and stepped out of her shoes and then climbed in beside me. I tucked my arm around her shoulders and pulled her against me. I didn’t know what to think, how to act, but I knew that I needed this, for as long as I could have it. The spectre of her perfect normal life was looming and I wasn’t ready to face it yet.

She eased a little closer, putting her face against my neck. She put her arm around my waist and pulled me against her and then she sighed deeply, contentedly. I put my nose to her hair, taking in that scent of her, and closed my eyes for a time. I don’t know how long for, but her breathing fell into a steady rhythm quickly and she slept. My mind was racing. It had taken a long time for me to adjust myself to the reality of my own death. I had no idea, now, how to adjust to the reality of living. And I didn’t know if she was going to stay. I was fairly sure she wasn’t. I had no desire to be handed the shards of my heart again. I would rather have died; that was the simple truth of it.

I slept for a while, drawn in by her steady breathing and the soft, warm body against mine. A soft knock at the door woke me, and I opened my eyes to find Abigail peeking in, a tray in her arms.

“Hey,” I said, quietly, trying not to wake the woman in my arms.

“Hi,” she said in reply, just as softly. “I thought you might like some tea and maybe something to eat. Helena’s barely eaten or slept.”

I looked at the sleeping woman next to me and nodded.

“I figured as much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so bad.”

“She left him, you know. Straight after you left her there, she went home and packed. She talked to Claudia and got on the next flight. She told me, after they saved you, that she knew she belonged here – that she’d always known. That you nearly dying had simply been the catalyst. She was so lost, after Emily Lake, the astrolabe… I am telling you this, Myka, because I know you won’t ask. That you will suffer in silence and wait to be told that she’s leaving again. And I don’t know her well, Myka, but I believe she is sincere – that she’s staying, for you.”

Abigail’s face was sympathetic and open. I just stared. I didn’t believe it, any of it. Because it was too much like the happy ending from a Disney movie. My true love sweeps in, saves me from death and comes back to me all in one fell swoop? Maybe that happened, for some people, but not for me. It never had and I doubted it was about to start for me now. All I knew was losing the people I loved. There were so few of them now, and even though she was in my arms now, there was no guarantee that she would stay. She would freak out again and go and I would be left here, with my friends, yes, but alone.

“Thank you, Abigail,” was all I said, but my tone was tight and my face was blank. She took it as the dismissal it was, and left the tray behind – tea, sandwiches and some of Artie’s cookies, by the smell.

“Myka?”

I looked at the top of her head, kissed it gently.

“Yes, it’s me.”

She hugged me closer, pressing her face into my neck.

“I dreamed…I had a dream, that you were gone. That I was too late.”

“I’m here,” I murmured into her hair.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, her clinging to me and me breathing her in.

“She’s right, you know,” she whispered into the silence.

“Who?” I asked, puzzled. I had been adrift, relaxed by her presence, lost in my own mind.

“Abigail. I left Nate and Adelaide, and I am staying. Whether you…want me, or you do not, I will remain at the Warehouse. I can…I will stay away from you, if that is what you wish. But I belong here, and I am sorry I ever left. I am sorry I left you.”

Her face was still buried in my neck, and I could feel her lips move against my skin as she spoke. I couldn’t see her expression, but I could feel her brow wrinkling up in worry as she spoke.

“Helena. I was dying. I…give me five minutes, will you? Just to get used to the fact that I have a future, before I go making any decisions or promises.”

She nodded, still not looking at me.

“Can we just…have this, for now? Please?” I whispered. She nodded again, and brushed a kiss against my neck. It whispered against my skin and it made me shiver.

“I love you,” I said.

She sat up, turning to stare at me.

“What?”

“I love you,” I repeated.

“But you just said…”

“I know what I said. And I know that I love you. I just…I just wanted to say it. Even if it’s just this once.”

She stared at me.

“I…okay.”

She turned to the tray that Abigail had left and sat up, busying herself with fixing her tea as she liked it. I smiled. She was so…English, when it came to tea. She passed me a cup and I sat up, sipping the hot drink.

“The feeling is mutual. In case I needed to clarify that,” she said, between sips of tea and small frowns of concentration as she added extra honey to the camomile tea.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Could you pass me a sandwich?”

She sputtered a little, and then did as I asked. Maybe I wasn’t treating this the way I should, but I guess being brought back to life would do that to a person. I ate my sandwich – cheese and some sort of relish, or a chutney, maybe? It was pretty good, a little dry but okay when combined with the tea. I sat back a little with a sigh and closed my eyes, finishing my tea quickly. I lay down, relaxing my body and taking deep breaths, revelling in my body being whole again. It was so weird to be so sick and to feel that my body was on the cusp of death, and then to wake up and be back to what I used to be. It felt like a second chance. I didn’t know what I wanted to make of that chance, however. As always, my thoughts came back to her. Was she for real, this time? Or would I wake up tomorrow and find out that she was in Nebraska living as a hotel manager, or barefoot and pregnant in Iowa?

It took her a while longer before she finished her tea. I could hear her moving around restlessly and eventually she spoke again.

“Do you…” she sighed and trailed off. I lifted my arm up without opening my eyes, and she snuggled into my body wordlessly.

“Relax, Helena. Apparently I’m going to live so we have some time.”

She sighed and kissed my neck again. She relaxed against me and I turned my body in to hers, pulling her closer. I couldn’t believe that she was here. And having her in my arms was just…it felt right, but fragile. Like she could be taken away at any time, or leave at any time. I wanted it so badly, but I didn’t trust it. She kissed me again, her mouth moving restlessly against my skin, and I turned my head to meet her lips with mine. I could feel her uncertainty, her hesitation, in the way she kissed me back. I moved away, sitting up and putting my head in my hands.

“Okay, so I guess we’re talking about this now,” I sighed.

“Myka, I…I’m so sorry, for what I did. I shouldn’t have left. I hoped that you would understand, at least in part.” She really did sound sorry, and for some reason that infuriated me.

“I do, Helena. I totally understand that after everything that happened to you, you would need time to find yourself. But I hate it. I hate it that you left without telling me, that you didn’t tell me you were staying away, that you didn’t have the decency to contact me at all. I was so worried about you, and then you only called because of…because of an artefact?” I yelled that last word incredulously and then I got out of bed and started pacing before continuing. “I know I don’t need to ask if you would have called otherwise, because I know you wouldn’t have. I hate that you were okay with me being here, not knowing where you were, and thinking that you could be dead or in some Regent prison. Because no-one would tell me, Helena. I hate that it took me dying for you to come back. And I hate that you took my choice away, that you made the decision to use an artefact to save me without asking me. I hate that I can’t trust a damn word that comes out of your mouth. Does that cover everything?”

My voice had been steadily rising during my little diatribe, and by the end of it I was almost shouting. She was staring at me with tears in her eyes.

I stared back for a moment, and then I stripped quickly. I found my running gear, which I hadn’t used for almost a year, and I dressed and left the room without looking back. I didn’t encounter anyone on my way out and I ran until my lungs were burning and my legs were shaking. Then I sat down where I was and I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

Three days later, she hadn’t thought of anything to say to me. I knew she was still there, probably still staying at the Warehouse. I had seen her disappear when I arrived at the Warehouse on the second day after my miraculous recovery – she took one look at me and left the office, heading into the body of the Warehouse. Artie, however, had chased me out straight away, saying I needed more time to allow myself to readjust before I went back to work. Abigail was giving me the side-eye that meant she thought I needed to talk. And everyone else was just plain walking on eggshells.  It made me want to swear and shout and fight. They had gone to all this effort to make sure I stayed alive, and now not a single one of them could stand to be in the same room as me. So I did something stupid. I went to Wisconsin.