Lem - 12. Conrad

The days don't get much easier.

It's only been a month since Mattie went away, and it’s supposed to be the best time of the year. I guess I'm not much for the holiday spirit anymore. I try to keep my mind and my hands busy, but it always feels like my heart’s been yanked out of my chest.

Chase has taken to pitying me, and I just hate it. Every time I look at her, if we catch eyes, she smiles at me like she's trying to let me know she's there, or trying to give me some sort of reassurance. Jason hasn't said much to me; he kind of keeps to his own now.

The day I told her, Momma called Mattie's mom to see what was going on. She really didn't say anything that Ronnie hadn't already said. I didn't know if Mattie might have mentioned anything else, but it still sits at the back of my mind.

I never knew Matthew Hedquist would be the one to unravel my world, the one to leave me behind in hell when I thought it'd be him who would save me.

Momma tells me I've been mopey lately. Brooke noticed it too, but she doesn't know what's going on. I don't plan on telling her, either. I want Mattie to have some dignity, and if I said anything, I'm sure everyone in town would hear about it. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he was gone, either. Brooke brought it up once or twice, but it doesn't seem to matter to her either way.

When I go to bed at night, he haunts my thoughts like a sad ghost. I remember the way his skin smelled, the way it felt to the touch. I remember his warmth when it was cold, the goose-bumps on his arms, the smile that was special for me, and his kind orange eyes.

I cry at night. If it would make the world right, if it would have stopped Mattie trying to kill himself, I would have left Brooke alone.

She complicated things way too much. So did Jeff.

* * *

The second time I saw Backdraft was on a protest picket sign in Nevada. Someone had taken his picture and made it look like he was standing on top of a hamburger bun. Above it, in big white letters, it read: This ain't your burger.

These were the people who believed that cows shouldn't be domesticated. They wanted to free all the ranks, and put them in some sort of rehabilitation farm.

I wonder how any one of those hippies would have stacked up against that animal in a pen.

* * *

The sky's a swirl of dark blue and orange. The setting sun hits the bottom of the clouds, mixing an eerie color of orange and red. Naked winter trees reach for the sky like fingers of a skeleton. A flock of geese fly toward the south in a delta. I reckon it’s a picture that might just make a duck hunter feel right at home.

The red and blue light flickering on the sun visors reminds me that I'm in a world of deep shit. I'm parked on the side of the road, and behind me, a highway patrolman talks into his radio. I see him in my rear-view mirror--that he's fixing to come out and walk up to this window.

I'm done for.

I knew I'd get busted for this before I even took off with Jason's truck. Now I'm tangled up with the law with nothing more than my learner's permit and Momma's gas card. I throw my arms across the steering wheel and lean my head against them.

I am so fucked.

There's a heavy tapping on the window.

This cop doesn't look like he ever touched a donut in his life; he looks like a drill sergeant. He's got on this flat-brimmed hat that's covered with a plastic hairnet looking thing, and a black jacket with fur around the neck. He's knocking on the glass with the handle of his Billy-club, with his other hand on his pepper spray.

Look at me, I'm pathetic. Really fucking threatening.

I try to roll down the window, but it feels like all the energy's gone out of my arm. It takes some effort to get the damn thing down, but then again, this window handle has always been difficult.

I stare at him and blink a few times.

It looks like he's trying to size me up. "We goin' for a joy ride?"

I fold my hands in my lap and look down at them. "No, sir."

"You keep those hands where I can see 'em. Up on the steering wheel."

I do as I'm told.

"You know why I pulled you over today?"

"Um, no, sir."

"Care to tell me where we're heading, Mister Taylor?"

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

He grins and nods at me. "Into the fire." He shines his flashlight around the cabin, then on my face. It’s bright as the light of God himself. "Not gonna get wily on me, are ya'?"

"No, sir."

"Good. You hand me those keys there and step on out of the truck. Gonna need your license and registration."

After turning off the truck, I hop out and close the door behind me. I hand him the key ring and my permit.

He eyeballs my ID, and brushes the light across the hood of the truck. "Why don't you hop up on the hood there and have a seat. I'll get to you in a second." He walks toward his car, stops by the door and starts talking into the radio on his shoulder, watching me like a hawk the entire time. "5-1 to dispatch."

"5-1 go ahead."

"Hey there Tammy. I intercepted the boy from the call we got this afternoon on Highway 15 about thirty miles south of Conrad. Male, sixteen, five-six, one-thirtyfive, brown, green. Driving on a permit without an adult in a stolen vehicle. Name is Taylor, first, Eric. Would you call his parents and tell them we'll have him at the police station in Conrad?"

* * *

They've had me locked in this little conference room for the past three hours; the clock just drags on and on. Every once in a while, one of the dispatch ladies comes in to make sure I don't need a bathroom break or something. I want to go home, but not with the hell-storm that's coming around the corner.

I hear someone coming up the hall and wonder if this could be it--the end of me. Maybe it's a chance to get out of this room for a little bit, but I don’t really need to pee.

No use wasting my time wondering. Whoever it is walks past the door, and on down the hallway.

Resting my head on my arms, I almost want to doze off for a little, but I know it's not going to do me any good. I stare at the back of my hand, turn it over and eye the tips of my fingers. They’re stained black from when they fingerprinted me. They took my picture, gave me a number, and put me in a computer. If I ever get out of line again, they'll add it to my gone-done list.

My leg's falling asleep. I try to shake it a little, end up hitting my knee on the table leg.

One of the dispatch ladies peeks her head through the door. She’s a plump little redhead with her hair pulled back in a braid--all of about five-foot nothing and very personable. She's the one that processed me and talked to me when I came in. She filled out the paperwork and sat with me for half an hour and just chatted. Her name is Irene, if I remember right.

When she asked what I was doing sneaking away from home, I told her a little about Mattie, and that I was trying to find him. She said she thought I had a big heart trying to find my best friend in his time of need.

I wish I felt the same.

"You ready, hon?"

I get up slowly, and walk to her with my eyes down. I don't know where my parents are going to show up, or which corner they'll walk around, but I don't want to see them when they do.

She puts a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, sweet pea. It's nothing time won't heal." She leans in real close, whispering: "and just think, in a few years, when this is all past you, you can look at this as a learning experience."

I don't understand why she's being so sympathetic. I just swallow and nod, keeping my eyes down the best I can. I pull my jacket over my arms and follow her out.

She squeezes my shoulder, leading me down the hall toward where I came in.

My parents are sitting in the lobby, on seats that look like they came from a bus stop twenty years ago. Jason's sitting on a padded bench across from them with his arms crossed, and his legs stretched out in front of him. He's got his hat pulled down a little and he’s zonked out; he must have slept in the truck all the way here. I don't think he's all the way awake yet. I guess they brought him so he can drive his truck home and they can both take turns yelling at me on the ride back.

Dad and Momma stand up when we walk in. Momma grabs my arm and shakes the evil out of me. "I was worried sick."

"I'm sorry, Momma."

Dad chews on the inside of his mouth and shakes his head. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry."

I can only bring myself to stare at the tile.

"Mister, Missus Taylor, if you'd follow me, I have some paperwork that needs to be taken care of before we can release Eric."

Momma turns toward me. She points at the spot next to Jason and snaps her fingers. "Sit yourself down."

Irene leads them down the hall.

I sit next to Jason, slowly, and as far to the right of him as I can get. I have a feeling that he's going to do something to me for stealing his truck.

I hug my arms, hunching over a bit.

He puts his arm behind me. He's going to smack the back of my head, I just know it.

I jerk to the side, cover my head, squint at him and wait for the hit.

He holds his arm up. "Lem, come here."

"No! You're gonna fuckin' hit me."

He motions with his hand. "No I'm not. Come here."

He's used this tactic before. If it doesn't happen now, he'll just sneak into my room when we get home and beat the crap out of me there.

Hesitantly, I take a small scoot toward him.

He wraps his arm around my back and pulls me tight against his side; I want to get away from him because I can smell his body odor. "I got to thinkin' bout things a little on the way over. Bout everything that's gone on the last month. I'm not mad at you for this."

"You'd beat the shit outta me for lookin' at you funny."

"You had your reason for what you done. When I get into trouble, I'm only thinkin' bout myself most of the time."

I try to push away from him. "Why’re you being like this?"

He folds his arms up and looks over at me. "I've treated you'n Chase like shit all your lives. You threw that curve pitch at me when you asked why I hated you. I couldn't say I didn't because I've always resented you. Mom'n Dad have always loved you more. They always treated you different."

"That's bullshit. Dad and Momma love us all the same."

"That's bullshit. Everyone plays favorites, Lem. I wish I could be more like Ronnie. Dun' know why I can't. I'm just not him. But I'll tell you one thing- don't go around fuckin' up your life like I have. Ten to one Mom'n Dad come right out that door and tell you they'd expect this sort of shit from me, but not you.

"They're gonna tell you they don't think they can trust you anymore. You're grounded. This shit, that shit and the other shit. Got one hell of a shitty ride back to Burlee. Relieved for once it's not me."

"Well, there's a surprise."

"I might be a piece of shit, but I'm still human. We all make mistakes. Yours just meant something. Believe me or not, I respect you a lot for sticking up for Mattie, and for doin' this."

I cock my head to the side. "Man, what the hell got into you?"

"Like I said, you got me to thinkin' about a lot of things. Putting yourself in front of others."

"What would you know about putting yourself in front of others?"

He looks at me and cracks a smile. "I'm joining the military."

"What?"

He sits up. "Don't say anything to anyone yet. I've managed to keep my grades up above C's. Got two B's and an A even. I want to tell Mom and Dad when I get my next report card. You know, try to make something of myself and show them I'm not a huge fuck-up." He punches me in the arm. "Well, not as huge a fuck-up as you."

"Damn, Jason. That's... something." I'm shocked. For once, I don't know what to say.

He chuckles. "Next time you wanna go for a joy ride, ask for the keys, first. I might just make myself scarce so they didn't know it was you that gone."

* * *

"You gonna say something or am I?" Dad scans the road in front of him.

"I'm so pissed right now, I don't think I could even talk." Suddenly, Momma turns in the seat and points two fingers at me like a gun. "What the hell's gotten into you? This is the kind of shit Jason does. Now I don't even know if I can trust you anymore!"

Dad looks at me through the rearview mirror. "Answer your mother."

"I... I'm sorry M--"

"You know how lucky you were, Lem? What would've happened if you'd wrecked, or got stranded somewhere? You know how your father or I would feel if something had happened to you? Do you?"

I look down at my lap. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't yes ma'am me. You know stealing a car is a felony? You can go to prison for that, Lem! You're just lucky it was your brother's truck. If it was someone else, they could have pressed charges. How'd you feel if we let you go to prison for that? You know I had to plead with that lady to drop the charges for running away from home?" She sighs. "Now we're gonna have to come back in a month for court. Maybe if you're really lucky they'll expunge that from your record. Be lucky if they don't suspend your license until you're twenty-one. Where in the hell do you think you were you going?"

I stall, because I feel myself starting to get stirred up.

Dad turns around, grabs my face by the chin and squeezes.

"Damn it, Gary, watch the road! I'll take care of this." She looks at me again. "So, where were you going? Huh?"

I bite my bottom lip and look out the window. Look at a light off the highway a ways. There's a farm or something out there in the middle of--

"You look at me when I'm talkin' to you. Why were you going to Billings?"

I look at her, angry-like. "If you knew where I was goin' then you know why."

"I want to hear you say it. Tell me."

"I wanted to set things right with Mattie."

"How would you have found him? You don't even know where he is."

"I would'a found a way."

"You think if you did manage to find him, they'd even let you see him?"

I don't want to talk about this anymore. "Goddamn it, leave me alone."

Dad looks over his shoulder at me. "I'm gonna pull this truck over and pop you one in the mouth."

"Gary, just... stop it. That's not going to help anything." She shakes her head. "I just don't know who you are anymore." She sighs. "You're grounded for two months, and--"

"Two months?"

"...two months. And while you're grounded, you're going to go over to Missus Jensen's house every day after school. She's gonna have chores for you to do, and I expect you to do them thoroughly, quickly, and without complaining. And starting next Friday, I'm taking you over to Havre to start seein' a doctor."

"A doctor? What for?"

"A therapist, Lem. Because I don't think you understand what's going on or how to deal with it. You need an outlet now that Mattie's gone."

"Don't fuckin' say it like that!"

"Lem, watch your mouth or I'm gonna smack the stuffin' outta ya."

"You don't have to say it like he's dead."

"Well, seeing you're probably not gonna see him again, I'll say it how I please."

"I hate you." I cross my arms and look off. I didn't mean to say it; it just slipped. I don't hate her, I'm just pushing all the wrong buttons--I want a reason to hate her.

Dad reaches across the back of his seat and grabs me by the back of the neck, pulling me forward. He keeps his other hand on the wheel. "You apologize. Right now!"

"S... sorry, ma'am."

He lets me go.

I slide back and sit against the door.

There will be quiet the rest of the way home. I know how Momma works: when we roll into the driveway, her brain will hit the reset button and start all over again.

* * *

"You're being awfully quiet." She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, and rests her hand on top of her writing pad. She's got those thick black cat-glasses like people had in the sixties. She’s a younger lady that looks like she's just out of college--thin, small, brown hair.

She's got little knickknacks all over her office--little toys and gadgets here and there. Her diplomas hang on the wall, the one from Washington State situated right next to an old picture of a bald man; there's a little plaque on the picture that reads Freud.

"Didn't reckon I was supposed to say anything." I squeeze a pillow and lean up against the side of the couch, looking around the room to find something else, other than her, to fix on. I don't like it here.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"I don't like people tryin' to get inside my head."

"Why would you think I'm trying to get in your head?"

"You're a psychic. You work with crazy people. I ain't crazy."

She grins and lifts her glasses so they're sitting on her head. "Lem, I'm not a psychic. I'm a psychologist. And nobody's calling you crazy."

"Then why am I here, lady?"

"Call me Reagan. Lady makes me a bit uneasy."

"Okay."

"We're here to talk about what you want to talk about."

"What, so you can tell my parents everything I say? Great, my parents are paying you to spy on me."

The last kid that was in here--I was sitting in the lobby with his parents. About ten minutes before I went in, the kid came out and Reagan took his parents in for a while.

She shifts in her seat. "Lem, whatever we talk about in this room is between you and me. I won't tell your parents anything we talk about. It's, like, I can't tell you what me and any other patient are talking about."

"Then what do you say to my parents when they come in here after we're done?"

"Well, I ask them how things are at home and try to get a better feeling about your family--try to see things from your parents point of view. It helps paint a bigger picture of what's going on so I know what I should talk to you about next time I see you."

I sit back and look out the window. "Whatever."

"I'm not here to judge you."

We sit for a while. She watches me, writing something down every so often. "Tell me about Matthew."

She's starting to get on my last nerve. "What about him?"

"What's he like? How long have you two been friends?" She shrugs. "I don't know… why'd you take your brother's truck to go find him in Billings?"

"Shy, a long time, and because I needed to make good on a few things."

"That's a start. What do you think you would have said if you were able to find him?"

I squeeze the bridge of my nose; this is going to be a long half hour. "I can't say."

"You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?"

"Both."

"Let's get away from Matthew for a little bit. Your mom tells me you have a rough relationship with your brother?"

"Yeah. He's a douche bag."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. I asked him why he hated me so much, and he just shook his head and walked off. Mattie's been the only one who's ever really understood me."

"Is that why you wanted to find him?"

"Maybe a little bit."

"Out of curiosity, why did you hit Jason?"

"He was sayin' some shit..." Suddenly, I feel myself blushing. "Sorry. He was sayin' some stuff I didn't like. Running his mouth like usual. But when he called me an emo fag and asked if I was gonna cut myself, I just... I don't know. I saw the bathtub where Mattie'd done it. It made me feel sick. I wondered if it'd been me, if Jason would have done what Ronnie did or just let me die there all alone."

"Do you think that's how Matthew felt? Alone?"

I taste sour in my throat. "You bitch."

She grins a little, like she wasn't too offended. "Seems like I hit a nerve. Why do you think I'm a bitch?"

I look at her square. "Nobody should die like that, especially someone like Mattie. He didn't deserve it. Any of it! Fuck! Why am I even here?"

"Why do you think you're here?"

I can't believe her. "Is this some sort of game you play? You think it's funny runnin' me around in little circles like this?"

She pouts her lips up a little and shakes her head. "I'm not playing games, Lem. I'm here to listen to what you have to say."

"Why do you even give a shit?" I hold up a finger. "Wait, 'cuz you're paid to give a shit."

"I'm paid to listen and help you dig yourself out of the shit you're in." She sighs. "I don't give a shit to get paid. I give a shit because I care about my patients."

"How can you care about me when you don't even know... shit about me?"

"I took an oath to help people. I really would like to get to know you better, Lem."

"You want to know me? You want to know me?" I stand up and start pacing around in front of the couch. "I'm sixteen. I have a criminal record for stealing a car--that's not like me. I beat the holy living fuck outta my brother because he said some shit I didn't like--that's not me. I'm confused. I haven't been happy in a long time. I'm stuck in this fucking room with you for the next twenty minutes. Is that enough for you?"

She blinks at me.

"Okay, how 'bout this? I'm coming uncorked. I want what I can’t have-- like riding a steer is really gonna fucking kill me, Dad. I jerk off three or four times a day, and I think dirty thoughts when I do it. I feel guilty about it later. I don't think I like my girlfriend. I've had sex, but not with her. Now do you think I need a fuckin' prescription?"

"That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

"And you keep asking me these fucking questions!"

She giggles.

"Why is this funny to you?"

She covers her mouth, like she’s trying to keep herself from laughing. "You're trying to rationalize not talking to me."

"I'm not talking to you!"

"No, you're yelling at me."

I sit down, frustrated.

"You know what I think?"

"No, but I get the feelin' you're gonna tell me." I run my hand through my hair and watch her, waiting for an answer.

She smiles again, and leans forward. "I think you're intelligent, sarcastic, confused, scared and a little hurt. You're an everyday, average teenager going through the same everyday stuff almost every other teen in the world is going through. I don't think you need a prescription. I don't think you're crazy. And if you keep being ornery like this," she chuckles, "I'm gonna have to take down that wall you've built, brick... by... brick."

* * *

I ring the doorbell and wait.

It takes Mrs. Jensen a while to get across the house at her age. After a minute, the door opens slowly. She stands there a little hunched over, one hand on the knob, and one hand on her cane. She looks up at me, smiles. "Well, hello there Lem! You're just in time. I've got myself a spider I can't get at, and I think you're just the person to evict him and tear down his little house." She laughs softly, moving her hand from the door to her lower back. She steps back to let me in.

Leading me through the house, she points at this and that. Each little antique in her house has a history of some sort. Once in a while, she stops and asks me if I could reach something, or tells me something that needs to be done later on.

We get to a room in the back of the house; a sewing room. She's got an old foot-pedal Singer on one side that looks like it still gets some use, and a newer pistachio colored electric sewing machine that looks a just a little bit older than Momma. There's part of a quilt spread across the table in front of the green machine.

I rub my fingers across the fabric. "Sure is a nice quilt you're mending, Miss Jensen."

She laughs, swatting at the air. "You." She comes up next to me. "That's a little quilt I'm making for Jenny Perkins. Her baby's just about due, so I guess I'm gonna have to hurry things up a little bit. Oop. There's the little bugger."

She steps forward and looks up at it. "Dandy long legs." She looks at me and smiles. "That's what I used to call 'em when I was a little girl. And by the looks of him, he sure is dandy." She looks around the room, hobbling around me to a table.

There's a little jar with a few buttons in it. She dumps it over, spilling the buttons on the table.

"Here. Use this to catch him. If you put him in the garden, he'll eat some of those aphids that've been eating my daises."

"Okay." I take the jar and get up on the chair. I try to scoop him in, but he darts across the wall. I follow him along and finally catch him. "You want it out front?"

"I think that'd be just fine, Lem."

I take the spider to the front yard and shake the jar over a patch of flowers; he falls out and scurries away.

I go back inside.

She's in the hallway on her way into the kitchen. "Come in. Keep an old gal company." She stops in front of the fridge. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

She goes for the coffee pot, filling a half-empty cup. She balances it in her hand while she heads for her seat. "I was thinking of going to Havre tomorrow, to the Wal-Mart there. Would your mom be willing to set you free for an hour or so? I can't reach those high places anymore. I need a sturdy set of legs and a good, long reach."

I take a chair and lean against the table. "I don't see that she'd have too much an issue of it."

"I hear you like to fish."

"I do, when the urge scratches."

She sips her coffee and puts the cup down on the table. "You might be just the one who can help me out. I'm supposed to make a quilt for a certain boy who likes fishing. Maybe you could help me pick out some fabric." She smiles at me. "I'm sure if I sent him something with flowers on it, he'd be tickled the wrong shade of pink."

"I reckon."

"So why all the trouble lately? You've always been the quiet one in your brood."

I sigh. "I don't know. Just this stuff with Mattie an' everything."

She looks at the ceiling as if she's lost and floating in space. "The Hedquist boy? Matthew? The shy one?" This lady has a mind like a tack.

"Yeah."

"What's he gone and got himself all wrapped up in?"

"I'm not really supposed to say, since his family's trying to keep it quiet."

"Oh, who would I tell?" She takes another sip. "No use getting all caught up in that gossip, or spreading it either. Doesn't do anyone a bit of good."

"No, no--I trust you. It's not that, it's just a sore spot." I clasp my hands together, stare at the table. "Little 'round a month ago he tried to take his life."

"My, my, my. God bless the child." She sighs, taking another absent drink. "Why are you getting tangled up in a mess like that?"

"Well, we both said some things. Got into a fight that caused him to think that way. I said some things I had to make right for, and I didn't think there was any other way to get to him, seeing his brother was fixin' to kill me. Matthew's been my best friend since we were little. It's just weird without him around."

She nods and thinks for a moment. "That's a pickle you're in. The both of you." She looks at me. "Is he safe now?"

"As far as I know. Ronnie said he was in a home in Billings."

"Speaking of which, you've reminded me: I need to get my Christmas cards sent off to them sometime before Easter. Gosh, look at me, always one step behind myself! You know, while we're sittin' here, would you mind helping me put stamps on some letters?"

I smile. "Happy to."

She turns and points to a room off the kitchen on the other side from where we came in. There's a step down into a cluttered office, and a desk covered in papers. Books are scattered all over the place. "There's a box sitting on the chair in front of the desk. Stamps should be in with them. Bring it on in here."

I step in the room and scoop up the box. There must be at least a hundred small envelopes in there. I remember back to almost every Christmas, as far back as I can remember, always getting a card from Mrs. Jensen. I set the box down on the table. "Here we go."

"I'm so happy the stamps are little stickers, now. I remember how dry my mouth'd get licking all those stamps. Had to sit there with a class of water with lemon in it, just to get that awful taste off my palate." She hands me a stack about thirty thick. "Why don't you start with these. I still have a few I need to sign."

I start peeling stamps off the wax paper, placing them neatly in the upper right-hand corner.

She puts on a pair of glasses. "Speaking of the Hedquist clan, here's Ronald..." she thumbs through the envelopes. "...Taylor. Here's John. Ah-ha! Matthew." She pushes her reading glasses up her nose. "I'd just be willing to bet they'll be sending a care package his way. Would you like to write a little something for him?"

"I better not, Missus Jensen. I don't want Ronnie or his parents gettin' mad if they open it."

She smiles. "I don't think they would open it if they think it's only from me."

"I just don't want to set him off, since I was the reason he did what he did."

"Lem, dear, that wasn't your fault. People get into fights all the time. Do you think they all up and try to end themselves when they're on the losin' end of things?"

"Mattie's sick."

"I'll agree to that. But maybe it'd help him heal, to hear from you."

"I... I don't know." I put a sticker on the next envelope.

She puts her hand on mine and stops me. "Just a little something to let him know he still means something to you." She nods me on. "It's easier than goin' out and gettin' yourself in trouble with the law."

"What if Ronnie finds out?"

"Well, if Ronald finds out, you just send him over here to me, and I'll take care of him."

"Just you make sure his Browning's empty before you send him back."

She laughs a little, swats the air again, and slides the card over the table. "Go on. Even if it's only a word or two."

I think for a minute, taking in the details on the front of the card: a little cherub angel praying over a manger; a lamb on the other side; light shining down from a star.

I don't know what I could say that wouldn't make things worse, but I open the card anyway.

Mrs. Jensen has written a novel inside. She must start doing her Christmas cards in July, from the looks of things.

I find a small blank spot at the bottom edge of the card, where there's just enough space for a word or two.

The only thing that comes to mind: Miss you, Shadow.