141Wow. A year and two months has passed since I first started writing this. It hardly seems like it. I'd like to say it's all been fun, but for those who've come up against writer's block can attest, being unable to find just the right word or way of saying something can come close to maddening at times. And the research – it seems that putting a simple word or phrase into a search engine suddenly renders the infinite Internet, finite.
All in all though, Covenant was fun to write. I hope everyone who has stuck with me to this point has enjoyed the journey and maybe even shares in my belief that John Reese did not die on the rooftop and went on to become Michael Emerson's "mysterious motorcycle man".
Thanks to my beta – justayellowumbrella – for making me look like my grammar skills are much better than they are and giving me the much needed pokes to keep going along the way.
Thanks to the characters (and the wonderful people who bring them to life) for letting me play with them for a while. I think I put them back in relatively good order.
And thanks to my readers – those who were able to review and those who weren't. Just knowing that a story is being read helps to keep the muse happy.
I hope I've managed to wrap things up in a satisfactory way. Thanks again for reading :)
Bander
Another two months passed. Sameen kept busy working the Numbers and was often gone for several days at a time. Steve had lessened his time at Egret's Haven from every weekend to every other and returned home to California for good. It'd been hard to bid the doctor farewell, but he'd promised to come back for a visit – as long as it didn't involve walking into a crisis. Grace – upon Harold's insistence – spent part of her time settling in at the art school and setting up her on-campus studio.
Working together, John and Harold continued to make the slow, steady progress that was the backbone of recovery. As their strength, stamina, and flexibility grew, their time with Brandy gradually lessened until her services were no longer needed. Both men were cleared for discharge on the same day. It was a pivotal moment, especially for John, who no one – including himself – had expected to survive.
Although free to go, they remained at Egret's Haven while they got their affairs in order. Harold and Grace chose to exchange vows in the garden in front of the fountain with the courting egrets. It was a private event kept among friends and officiated by a priest from a nearby parish. John was chosen as Harold's best man, Sameen as Grace's maid of honor, and Bear as the ring bearer. Meant as a joke, the role of flower girl was offered to Lionel Fusco who surprised them all by accepting and playing the part with flourish.
It was the first time Lionel had seen John since that fateful day in the subway base. He'd learned about his survival from Sameen not long after she'd found out herself. They'd spoken on the phone a few times, but he hadn't made the trip up to visit. He said it was because he didn't like hospitals, but in truth it was not knowing how he would react to seeing someone alive that he'd already accepted as dead. His misgivings and concerns turned out to be unwarranted. When he finally met up with John, the burly detective practically crushed his former partner's spine when he pulled him into a fierce hug.
With the wedding behind them, the focus turned to housing. As luck – or perhaps technologically enhanced fate – would have it, two suitable properties came on the market at the same time. While both were widely different – one an old townhouse and the other a modern cape – they were within commuting distance to the city and less than five miles apart from each other.
Even before they'd stepped inside, John had taken an immediate liking to the townhouse. Harold tried, but was unable to garner the same response; the three-story brick building was just too dark, dank, and dismal for the hacker's taste. To make matters worse, Sameen had insisted on showing them what had to be the largest spider he'd had ever seen.
According to the realtor, the large building had spent its first century as six separate apartments. In the 1970's, it had been converted into self-storage units and remained as such until changes in the zoning laws shut it down. Now, after having been empty for nearly a decade, it had come onto the market at just the right time.
"Oh my," Harold uttered as he stepped into the expansive room before him. Gone were the depressing sights and musty smells of abandonment. In their place was a neat, stylish, and uncomplicated living space that vaguely reminded him of the apartment he'd given John several years ago on his birthday. "This is very different."
The layout was an open concept. The bedroom, kitchen, and living area all shared the same space, but each had been made distinctly separate by the way the furniture had been arranged. Numerous windows studded the red brick walls, their curtains drawn back to allow in the warm light. The wooden floor was old, but cared for – the many scuffs, nicks, and worn patches giving it character.
As he slowly walked around, Harold nodded his approval of the simple, yet tasteful fixtures. The stainless appliances, granite counters, leather furniture, hardwood shelving, and cast-iron bed frame – nearly everything around him had an earthy, elemental feel. He peered through doors, studied the small groupings of framed black and white photos, and paused to look at the mounted firearms that were displayed above the bed. They had the appearance of being decommissioned showpieces, but knowing John, they were fully functioning, loaded, and ready to go.
At the back of the room, there was a closed door which he gave pass. The scent of gun oil was prevalent in the air and he knew without looking that John's prized weapon collection was housed inside. He went over to the window instead and looked out at the world three stories below. It was a nice neighborhood in a small town with friendly people, ample local amenities, and a sense of community that was often lost in the big city. It was also quiet, but not too quiet; one of the few things he'd adamant about during their search.
Harold stepped back and looked around the room again. It was still hard to believe it was same space he'd seen less than a month ago.
"Your awe is showing, Finch."
He turned around. John had settled himself on the leather sofa and was watching him. His feet were propped up on the stone coffee table and it took an ample amount of self-control for the hacker not to shoo him off. "Did you do all this yourself? The decorating choices, I mean."
John's eyebrows rose. "Would it surprise you if I said yes?"
Harold started to reply, but paused when he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to convey. He wanted to pay his friend a compliment, not discredit his skill if that were the case or make him feel inferior if it weren't. "Yes…I mean, no…not really. Just given your background, I never would have guessed you had such an eye for…" He gestured vaguely at the room. " Aesthetics."
The ex-op laughed. It was a deep chuckle that was seldom heard and an expression of genuine amusement. "Don't worry, Finch. I had help. I knew what I wanted and Grace was nice enough to point out everything that would clash."
"She does have a good eye for harmony and balance," Harold agreed. "But it is your space, Mr. Reese. If you wanted something that she suggested you leave out…"
"I think she's right – the grenade shadowbox would have been too much."
The hacker smiled. "I thought this place belonged on the condemned list the last time I saw it," he said, wandering into the kitchen area for another look. "How did you get it finished so quickly?"
"Hired a contractor that would work twenty-four, seven until it was done. I think they did pretty damn good for a three-and-a-half-week turnover."
"It's incredible." He traced a vein of blue that ran through the black granite countertop with his finger. "Now you just have to decide what to do with the two lower floors."
"Just the first floor; the second floor's already done – mostly done."
"What?"
"The crew just finished a few days ago."
This was news to him. "What did you decide to do with it?"
John shrugged. "Sort of an office, reading room combination. It's not much. You want to see it?"
"Yes – if you have time, that is." He knew John had arranged to take a few weeks off to rest and regroup before returning to work full time. He hadn't shared where or who – if anyone – he was going with, which the hacker thought was fine. If the younger man wanted to go off the grid to convalesce after all he'd been through, he was more than willing to give him the space he needed.
He watched as John grabbed his motorcycle jacket from the back of the couch and got to his feet. He limped heavily on his right leg for the first half dozen or so steps, and then gradually it began to fade. By the time he reached the door, the lameness was nearly gone. His recovery from Samaritan's hail of bullets hadn't been complete, but it had come amazingly close.
"Come on," John said, holding open the door to the stairwell.
"Are you sure? I don't want to make you late or…"
"Finch…"
"Coming." Harold hurried after his friend. His own limp was still noticeable, but it was a vast improvement from what it once was. He took the flight of old wooden stairs cautiously more out of habit than necessity. John was already waiting for him by the second floor entrance, a handful of stairs no longer seen as an obstacle.
"Like I said, its not much."
"I'm sure it looks fine," Harold assured him. "Especially if all of those old mattresses are gone."
He followed John inside and froze mere steps from the threshold. No… he thought, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. No…this can't be…this isn't real…there's no way this can possibly be… "Real…?"
"Yeah, it's real," John said, watching as his wide-eyed friend took in his surroundings.
"But I don't…" Harold uttered. He was standing in an exact replica of the main room of the Library – his former sanctuary and home base for his work with the Machine. The desk with its array of monitors, the bulletin boards covered in photos, the rows of book-laden shelves – everything was exactly as it had been before the emergence of Samaritan had forced him to abandon it. "How?"
"Some was from memory and the rest came from the files Root included in the Machine's reboot program."
Harold went to the desk. There, beside the mouse pad, was the small burn mark his soldering iron had left when it slipped from his hand one evening while he'd been modifying a motherboard. His legs feeling numb, he sank into the chair behind him, only vaguely aware of the familiar squeak it made as he shifted his weight. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you do this?"
"It's a way of saying thanks."
"You've already given me more than I could have ever hoped for, Mr. Reese," he said, absently rubbing the gold wedding band around his finger. "And now this…I don't know what to say."
"A 'thank you' is usually appropriate in a situation like this, but you're a smart guy, Finch. I'm sure you can think of something profound."
Harold swiveled around to see Sameen, Grace, Lionel, and Bear emerging from within the labyrinth of bookcases.
"You're all a part of this too?"
"It was originally the Machine and Reese's idea, but then we found out about it and it snowballed from there," Sameen replied.
"But why?"
"Payback." When the hacker's expression remained perplexed, she turned to Grace. "We're obviously not speaking the same language today – think you can translate?"
Grace went over to her husband. "You've helped to change the lives of so many," she said, kneeling down and taking his hand. "It's time something nice was done for you."
Harold enveloped her hand within his. "But the Library…"
"We knew how much you missed the old days, so we started talking," John said. "Turns out, we missed them too."
"You have to admit, we had a lot of fun times there."
"You and I remember things very differently, Ms. Shaw."
"We also knew how special the Library was to you," the Machine said, its voice coming from a speaker mounted somewhere in the room. "It wasn't just the place you went to work; it was your sanctuary and your connection to Nathan. When Samaritan forced us out and it was destroyed, it was almost like losing him all over again."
Harold's eyes widened. It knew that…? He thought, unable to recall ever speaking of this aloud. How could it have known…how couldn't it not have known…?
"The Library was a special place for me too," the Machine continued. "We spent a lot of time there, you and I."
"Yes," he agreed. "We did."
"You taught me so much – far more than mere programming could have ever done. You were always so attentive and patient. And it wasn't all work; we played games – hide and seek was my favorite."
The hacker grinned. "It's how we laid the premise for the shadow map. I would essentially hide somewhere in the city and the Machine would have to find me. Yes, those were special times." His smile faded when he realized something was still amiss. "You really remember all this?"
"Of course, Harry."
"But the ICE-9 virus would have destroyed your memory cache."
"And it did, but not before Root encrypted a copy and included it in my reboot files. She wanted me to know my origins; how I – how we – all fit together. It's a beautiful story; I'm honored to be a part of it."
"Okay, this is starting to sound way too much like a greeting card," Sameen muttered under her breath.
"Don't listen to Sammy, Harold. She feels the same way I do; expressing sentiment is something we're still working on."
"We want to thank you, Finch," John began. "For braving the dark and coming for us when we were certain that nobody would."
"Recreating the Library is our gift to you – for your vision, creation, and the sacrifices you made in order to make it a reality. Root and I knew early on that saving everyone was impossible, but you never stopped trying to do the right thing."
Harold took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Oh my, I must have gotten into some dust or something…" He looked down when he felt Grace squeeze his knee.
"Does this mean you like it?" she asked.
"Yes…yes…I love it. It's just so perfect…"
"The periodical index is at 98.2 percent completion. I'm presently working on locating the other 1.8 percent, but it may take some time. I'm afraid I was unable to acquire some of the rare first editions you once had – I hope later editions will suffice."
"Any edition will do just fine."
"And they're all arranged by the Dewy, Cheatem, and Howe system," Lionel proclaimed.
"That's the Dewy Decimal System, Sherlock."
"I knew what the detective meant, Ms. Shaw," Harold said. "This is incredible. I still can't believe how it all came together."
"And it's not even complete – there's still something missing."
"What?"
"You."
Harold turned to look at John. "Me?"
"What do you say, Finch? Will you come back to work?"
"To working Numbers? Oh, I…I don't know. I think I'd just be in the way. With the open system, I doubt I'd be of much use."
"On the contrary," the Machine replied. "There have been instances where your hacking expertise would have expedited the identification process. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but sometimes old school is the best way to get results. There are other instances where your knowledge would be useful – probably more than you think. And I do miss seeing that adorable little smile you get when everything comes together."
He frowned as the Machine's voice seamlessly went from serious to flirty. "Actually, I was planning to retire."
"And do what?" Sameen asked, knowing the hacker was about as likely to retire as John. "You're a Type A personality whose idea of downtime is running a full system diagnostic of a multifaceted network. You'd be bored within a week and then what? Would you pick up golf? Fishing? Or maybe you could check out the cribbage club down at the local community center."
"A buddy of mine tried retirement last year. It was less than three weeks before he and his old lady were at each other's throats," Lionel said. "Now he's back to working part time in the evidence lockup just to get some peace."
"It's not that I don't want to…I just…working with Numbers can be dangerous. I have more than myself to look out for now."
"Harold," Grace said. "You're not exactly the type that takes foolish risks."
"And you don't have to chase after Numbers if you don't want to – Reese, Fusco, and I can handle that while you run interference and worry from here. It'd be just like old times."
He sighed and shook his head. He was losing the argument, but that's not what bothered him the most; it was that he was glad to be losing it that disturbed him. They were all right. His skills were still valuable, retirement wasn't something he was seriously ready to consider, and risk taking was more impulse than habit – so what was his problem?
"You know, a friend once told me that I needed a purpose," John said. "More specifically, that I needed a job."
"Sounds like a wise friend."
The ex-op nodded. "He can be a little bullheaded at times, but I try not to hold it against him."
"If this is something you want to do, Harold, then do it," Grace urged.
"You really wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. In fact, it's something I want you to do," she said. "Listen to your friends – they need you and want you to come back. You've tried other things and managed to get by, but helping people is what you do best. It's in your blood – don't deny yourself fulfillment."
He reached out and touched her face. "But you fulfill me."
She smiled. "And you me, but there are other forms of fulfillment that we need in order to be happy."
"So are you in, Finch, or what?"
"It won't be the same without you, Harry…"
Harold looked around at the replica of the Library that had been created for him. Grace was right – there were different forms of fulfillment. He had his soul mate, his friends, and now the opportunity to renew his purpose was at hand. "Yes, Ms. Shaw," he said. "I'm in."
The close-knit group of friends was in the midst of commending the hacker's decision when John's phone rang. Excusing himself, he stepped away to take the call.
"So, this is what the famed Library looked like," Lionel said when things had settled down again.
"The main room, yes. There were several other floors in the original, but this one was the most…well, infamous," Harold replied. "It's such an accurate representation – it's almost eerie how exact things are."
"It reminds me of the library at the high school I went to. I spent a lot of there."
"Oh? Did you go there often to study?"
"Naw. Detention. I still remember the old plug that used to sit at the front desk too – Mrs. Hinkle." The detective shuddered. "The guys and I had some pretty creative nicknames for that crusty old battleaxe…"
Harold was trying to think of something to say that would discourage the other man from sharing further when John reappeared. There was no need to ask to who had called; the subtle, boyish grin on the younger man's face told him everything he needed to know. "I trust Ms. Morgan is well?"
"She's fi…" John looked him sideways. "How did you know I was talking to Zoe?"
"Harry isn't the only one who's expressions give them away, John."
"What?"
"It means you get this really dopey look on your face whenever you're around Zoe," Sameen said.
"No, I don't."
"Yeah, you do. It's disgusting."
"Don't tease, Sam," Grace chided gently. "I think it's sweet."
Sameen rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Look, we're all heading over to Snapdragon – that Chinese buffet in town – for lunch. Fusco's paying – he just doesn't know it yet. You guys in?"
"I just read about them in the paper last week," Harold said. "They're supposed to have one of the most extensive sake collections in the state. Yes, I would love to come. Mr. Reese?"
The ex-op shook his head. "I can't – Zoe's waiting for me."
"Ah, so the big secret's out. I don't know, Reese. You still tire out pretty quickly; you sure you're up for that kind of activity?"
"What kind of activity we talking about, Shaw?" he asked, seeing the teasing glint in her eye.
Harold cleared his throat. "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate conversation to be having before lunch – or anytime for that matter."
"Sorry to make you uncomfortable, Finch."
Grace chuckled and tugged on Sameen's arm. "Come on. Let's go so we can beat the lunch rush. Coming, sweetie?"
"Go on ahead – I'll be there in a minute." Harold waited until the others had gone before turning to his friend. "May I ask where you and Ms. Morgan are going?"
"Zoe's rented a lakeside cabin in Vermont. It's private, comes with a boat, a hot tub, and the brochure said the sunsets are epic. Whatever that means."
"I wish you had said something sooner – we would have let you use our place in Tuscany."
"Neither of us felt like traveling very far" John replied, shrugging into his jacket. "Vermont is close, but still out of the way."
Harold caught a glimpse of silver around his friend's neck. The younger man still chose to wear the St. Michael's necklace that the agent who'd pulled him off the roof had given him. Whether it was out of respect of a fellow soldier or something more complex, he couldn't say for certain.
"Mm. It sounds nice – relaxing. I'm glad you reached out to her – you're both good for each other." The hacker got to his feet and looked around at the reproduction of the Library. "I still can't get over this."
"For all you've done, it's the least we could do."
The two men headed for the door. "How long will you be gone?" Harold asked.
"The rental is for a few weeks. If we make it that long."
Harold nodded. He knew work came first for both agents and that it was the main reason a deeper relationship hadn't formed between them. He silently hoped that now – with the Machine largely governing itself and able to recruit assets as needed – the two would reconsider being more than just good friends. "Will you promise me something, John?" he asked as they entered into the stairwell.
"What?"
"That if you find yourself in need of more time away, you'll take it."
"There's a lot of work to be done," he said, starting down the stairs.
"And there always will be, John," the Machine said. "People are going to keep putting themselves into harm's way whether we're there to stop them or not. For a while I wondered if people would change their ways if they knew the bullet they dodged the day we brought down Samaritan, but I ultimately decided against it. Humanity is flawed in that sense – some do learn from their past mistakes, but they're in the minority.
"With that said, live your life – both of you. There will always be plenty of people who need saving when you feel like coming back."
"I don't think I could have said it any better myself," Harold said, as they stepped off onto the ground level landing.
"Well, not as sensually anyway," John replied with a grin. He went to open the door when Harold put a hand out to stop him.
"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Reese."
"I'll tell you what, Finch," he began. "I'll agree to your terms if you agree to mine."
"I'm listening."
"I'll take the time I need if you promise to call me if something big comes up."
"Define big."
"End of the world, big."
Harold took a moment to consider the offer. With Samaritan destroyed and the Machine looking out for itself, he felt quite confident the world would be safe without John Reese's presence on the streets – for a few more weeks anyway. "All right. That sounds reasonable."
With the issue settled, John pushed open the door. The ground floor of the townhouse was a far cry from the two above it. Little had been done to convert the large space from its former storage unit set up.
"I don't know why it surprises me what people will spend their lives collecting only to abandon it when something new comes along," he said, peering into the open units as they walked by. "Do you have any plans for down here?"
"Not really. I might just leave it like this – it's not hurting anything."
"True as that may be, but I'd rather not have to walk through this every day. It's dark, dusty, and…" He paused briefly as they walked by a unit full of random mannequin parts. "A bit unsettling."
"I think it gives it class." John saw the frown on his friend's face deepen. "I don't know. I was thinking of offering it to Grace."
"Grace?"
"She said her only regret about your new place is that it's not big enough for a studio."
"My plan was to have an outbuilding built for that purpose, but this would be considerably larger than anything we could put on our property."
John stopped by the door and took his motorcycle helmet from a hook on the wall. "Do you think she'd like it?"
"I think she'd love it."
"Then it's hers."
"Are you sure? It's a significant amount of space to give up."
"I have all the space I need upstairs," he replied, leaning against the door. "And if I need more, I'll just come down and hang out with you."
Harold turned to take another look at the room. He saw it not as it was, but as it could become. Bright and open with walls full of framed canvases, he could almost smell the tinge of paint in the air. "John, I have no doubt that your generosity is going to make Grace incred…" His expression of gratitude came up short when he realized John had already stepped out.
"You know the Big Guy isn't overly fond of the mushy stuff," the Machine said.
"I just hope he knows how much this means to Grace and I."
"He does and he's happy to do it. For an accomplished killer, the man has a heart of gold. He was a good find. I don't think we'd be where we are today without him. I know it hasn't always been easy, but…"
"But the best things in life seldom are." He looked back out over the room. "There's just so much potential here…" he uttered, thinking not only of the new space, but of the Library as well.
"I know you're eager to roll up your sleeves and start the demolition, but you might want to postpone it until after lunch. You know how cranky Sam gets when she's hungry."
Indeed, he did.
Harold drew in a deep breath of the clean smelling air as he stepped out into the warm day. So much had happened over the last couple of years – they'd seen the rise and fall of Samaritan, bid farewell to some amazing friends, and endured when survival seemed impossible. Despite it all, they had somehow emerged into what appeared to be a happy ending – or as close to one as a group of shadow walkers could come.
The others were gathered at the other end of the long driveway. As he started down to meet them, he saw Grace raise both hands to her face for a moment before throwing her arms around John's neck. He'd apparently offered her the bottom floor of his townhouse and it looked like she'd accepted.
"Harold!" she called when she saw him approaching. "Harold! Did you hear the news?"
"I did."
"I think it's even big enough for a studio and a gallery! John, I can't thank you enough!" She stood on tiptoes to give the ex-op a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying off in the direction of the car.
"Where are you going?" Harold called after her.
"To get my phone! I have to tell Taffy the news!"
Sameen's eyebrows rose. "Taffy?"
"She's the department head at the school," the hacker replied. "They've become fast friends. She's nice, but a bit eccentric if you ask me."
"Takes one to know one, Finch," John said, patting him on the shoulder.
"You sure you can't come to lunch? It's all you can eat. Between you, me, and Ms. Personality, I think we could eat them out of business."
"You and Shaw don't need my help to do that, Fusco," John said. "We'll hook up when I get back – assuming you two don't over-eat your welcome today."
Bear appeared at his feet and sat down with a low whine. John knelt and lifted the dog's drooping head so he could look him in the eyes. "Miss me already, don't you? I'd bring you along, but someone responsible needs to stay behind to hold down the fort. Think you can keep Finch and Shaw in line while I'm gone?"
The Malinois' tail began to beat on the ground and his tongue flashed out, catching his handler across the face. With an affirmative 'woof', Bear returned to Sameen's side and gazed up at her with an expression that said, "I'm watching you".
"Be safe out there, Mr. Reese," Harold said, cringing inwardly as the words left his mouth. He'd meant to say something more benign like 'travel safe', but once a worrier, always a worrier, and his concerns got the better of him. It wasn't John's fault that he often found trouble; he was simply the type that ran toward danger, rather than away from it. "But – above all – relax and try to have some fun."
"I will, Finch. We will."
"There's that dopey grin again."
"Don't have too much fun without me, Shaw."
"Don't worry – I'll save you some kneecaps," she said with a wink.
John's grin widened. "See you guys in a few weeks," he said, heading for his motorcycle parked at the curb. He took a moment to check the saddlebags he'd packer earlier. They were fuller than how he typically traveled, but the extra clothes inside had a higher purpose – protection for a fine bottle of wine and an even finer bottle of whisky.
Satisfied his cargo was secure, John swung his leg over the seat and fired off the engine. As he waited for it to settle, he slid on his helmet and lowered the visor. With the bike purring happily beneath him, he gave his friend's a casual wave, revved the engine, and drove away.
Harold watched him leave. It was hard to see him go, but at the same time, he was happy to see him going. Although John hid it well, the hacker knew that coming so close to death, the severity of his injuries, and the difficult recovery had all taken their toll. It was understandable that the younger man needed some time away to finish healing and reconnect with himself. He was glad John had chosen Zoe to keep him company, rather than facing whatever hurdles may arise alone.
"He'll be fine," Sameen said.
"I know."
"And he'll be back."
"I know."
"But you're still going to worry, aren't you?"
"Old habits die hard, I'm afraid."
"Relax, Harry," the Machine said, speaking to him privately. "I'll be keeping my eye on him."
Although it didn't sound like much, this simple reassurance was enough to lessen the weight of his concerns. The Machine was good for its word and always on duty, looking for signs of danger and employing subtle ways to intervene. He doubted John could find much trouble at a private cabin in the woods, but it made him feel better knowing that an omniscient guardian would have his back.
"I know," he said, earning a confused look from Sameen. Sighing, he offered her a small smile to show all was well. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Shall we go?"
Samaritan had taken something from each of them; some could be recovered with time, while others were gone for good. The one thing the radicalized super computer hadn't been able to take, however, was the unbreakable bond that the group of unlikely friends shared. The trials of leading a shadowed life may have caused them to suffer in body and mind, but as long as they were together, they had strength, and with that, hope would never be lost.
*End*
(Aug 10, 2016 – Oct 19, 2017)