The wind howled through the ragged tear in his down jacket, flipping his hood brim inside out. He shot a hand up to hold it in place, his knuckles had already turned a deep, bruised purple from the cold.
I could see his hand clearly on my monitor—this was the same hand that had pried my fingers open one by one in our past life. After he'd pulled them apart, he'd even patted the back of my hand soft as anything,
"Calm down, behave."
That was what he'd said, anyway.
He took two steps forward, the heel of his boot thudding dully against the porch planks with each step. Then he stopped. He didn't knock. He dropped to his knees.
The thud of his knees slamming into the wood came through my speaker, sharp and distinct.
"Sandy."
I didn't move. The steam curling up from my coffee was fading
