When they were gone, Waylen walked in and closed the door behind him.

Then he took a seat across from Mark.

Mark sighed and asked him, “Do you happen to have any cigarettes on you?”

Waylen hesitated for a moment. Then without a word, he reached into his pocket and brought out a cigarette pack, pulled out a stick and gave it to Mark.

The last time Mark smoked was nearly six months ago.

His hands trembled as he lit the cigarette.

asked,

say anything in

impossible to fathom anything

was enough for Mark to conclude that the

long drag on his cigarette,

hoarse voice, “Waylen, since I was a child, I’ve always believed that

Cecilia, Edwin and his unborn child was too much

just couldn’t allow himself to die and leave them

die,” Waylen

the children were his responsibility.

Waylen was no sentimentalist.

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