The touches had started small. Just a brush of his hand here; a tap of his finger there. But just before my unfortunate need to jump from the roof of St. Bart's, his hand would linger on my shoulder or hand while he explained what he needed or wanted. His caresses had eventually become a way to bring me back to earth and focus on him when my head went in fifteen directions at once.

There had been so many times I had wanted a blasted cigarette, or more. When Irene had been murdered (well enough to convince me at the time), I had wanted to find a way not to think, not to mourn. John would touch my hand or arm and pull me back. He had done it so many countless other times until I needed to jump to save him. And it wasn't until that moment in time, as I spoke with him on my mobile, begging him to understand with words I coul not say...he had become my lightning rod, my nicotine patch, my mind palace.