Just like that he was gone. Wilson had stopped being an It a long time ago. Chuck didn't know when and he didn't know how but the volleyball had become more than an object. It was his friend, his companion, and now he was gone. And the thought was too much for him to bear. And so Chuck grieved. For the first time in years he allowed himself to cry, real tears, the kind one would cry as if someone had died. And in a way someone had. Gone was the comrade who had been there for him through thick and thin. Gone was the one who had been there for one of his greatest accomplishments on the island- creating fire. Gone was his sole source of of companionship in a mad enviroment. He didn't know what he would do now, other than grieve.

Gone was the source of entertainment he had on the island. Chuck knew that he wasn't crazy, though sometimes he wondered if he wasn't. After all how many people could pass there time talking to a volleyball and retain their sanity? But ironically it was doing that that helped him stay same, though he knew no one would understand. It was something he didn't understand himself, but he didn't question it. Wilson became his friend, his only friend on the island, and he knew Chuck better than he knew himself. He listened to him, laughed with him, cried with him, advised him. When Chuck created the noose Wilson "told" him it wouldn't work but Chuck wouldn't listen. He had to test it out with the tree trunk and of course it didn't work out the way he had planned. Wilson was right; he was always right.

And now he was gone. Wilson had given Chuck hope when he needed it the most. Most importantly he was there for the birth of his idea to get off the awful island. He'd been sacrificed for the cause. He would never be forgotten. Wiison would always be just between himself and the seas. Maybe it was better that way.