There are things that have left him unguarded in this long moment, things that nothing could have prepared him for—mostly the feelings, the overwhelming swell of anger and protectiveness and the strange desperation. If his life were to have any poetry at all, this would not be the final act. It would be the turn, the climax. And as he toes the edge, he can see John's dark shape below, and feels resignation turn to determination. Maybe it doesn't have to be the final act after all.

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