I loved the sound of the water.

It reminded me of something Narnie and Webb could never find since that day on the Jellicoe Road. It reminded me of a time when we sat in the forest, talking about everything but the present (because life's bad enough, why talk about it) and me shooting cans out of a tree.

I poise to dive but I stop and wonder about something Narnie told Jude once. She told him that the trees overhead looked like a tunnel to Shangri-La, and in the car, she heard Webb mention it was the most beautiful world he'd ever seen.

She said that's what she thought about, when she was hiding their mother's severed, bloodied head from Webb's twinkling spirit filled eyes. She thought about how beautiful the Jellicoe Road was and maybe she'd write a book about it someday.

I can see Narnie's house from here, and I hear her shouts at night. "Fitzee. Don't leave me! Please?" But I choke down the thought of going to her and hugging her; because how could she look into the eyes of the boy who shot her brother out of a tree and not go crazy?

Narnie was already broken enough. Sometimes, I swore I heard the trees beckoning to her again and I'd put my dirt-encrusted hands over my ears so I wouldn't hear the sound her body made when she hit the ground.

"Forgive me, Narnie," I whisper before falling, longing for the water to caress my body and whisper its wisdom into the hollows of my chest. "Forgive me."

I'd be saying that every day for the rest of my life.