Like a bleeding scab, Sara could pick until she pulled them apart.  As with most stories, she had learned more about her self than she cared to. Sara knew too well what masks hid her scarred hide. An ache stirred that hadn’t since Jack came to stay. She thought about her grandfather and the tin box. Henry hadn’t just wanted her mother to have the box so she’d know he was her father. He wanted to cleanse himself of the dark secrets to which only he was aware. He wanted to share his burden with someone besides strangers. Fear of being left alone had become his self-fulfilling prophecy. Soren’s too. Sara hoped it would not be hers.

It was easy when She and Jack began: the rawness of it all, like a crisp morning in the summer, deep breathing, a slow pace, all feeling and sound. Like a new religion, it sustained. Jack did seem to have fallen from the sky like an angel. But without wings, would he feel dangerously stuck? Would he grow resentful? Would she? Or would they peel back the layers of anger, fear, and confusion they both seemed haunted by and shed their skin together?