The air in the community hall smells of burnt sugar and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that settles in the back of your throat and refuses to leave, much like the silence that hangs over the table where you sit across from your wife, Eleanor, whose hands are trembling so violently around her glass of water that the liquid inside ripples in small, nervous circles that reflect the overhead fluorescent lights in jagged, flickering shards of white light that seem to cut through the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the room where everyone is waiting for you to speak or to break or to simply vanish into the floorboards that creak under the weight of the chairs pushed back and forth by the restless legs of the townspeople who have gathered here tonight not out of curiosity but out of a deep, seated, communal hunger for the truth that you have been holding in your teeth like a stone for three days now and the sound of the rain lashing against the single, grimy window behind the banner that reads Welcome Home, David, creates a rhythmic, drumming noise that sounds suspiciously like a heartbeat that is slowing down, beating slower and slower, until the room feels like it is shrinking, pressing in on you from all sides, the walls closing in, the ceiling dropping, the air growing thick and unbreathable, until you can feel the pressure of the gazes of the forty or fifty faces staring at you, eyes wide, mouths tight, waiting, always waiting, and you look down at your hands, which are resting on the table, flat and pale, and you think about the river, how it runs so cold and clear in the summer, how the water moves over the rocks with a kind of indifferent, muscular power, carving away the stone, shaping the landscape, erasing the marks of those who stand on the banks, leaving behind only the smooth, worn stones that tell no story, that keep no secret, that are merely there, eternal and unchanged, and you think about how you have spent your entire life trying to be a rock, a fixed point, a thing that does not move, a thing that holds the line, a thing that stands firm against the current, but you are not a rock, you are water, you are the current, you are the thing that moves, that changes, that erodes, and you look up at Eleanor, who is staring at you with a look that is not anger, not fear, but a kind of profound, aching sadness that cuts deeper than any blade, a sadness that says she knows you are gone, that she knows you have left, that she knows you are not the man she married, that you are not the man she thought you were, that you are a stranger who wears your face, who speaks your name, who sits in your chair, who holds her hand, but who is not you, who is not him, who is no one, who is everything, who is the silence, who is the rain, who is the river, who is the stone, and you open your mouth to speak, to explain, to justify, to beg, to lie, to tell the truth, to say anything, but the words do not come, they stay stuck in your throat, a lump of dry, painful flesh, and you see the faces of your neighbors, your friends, your colleagues, your enemies, all mixed together in a blur of faces, a sea of faces, a wall of faces, and you think about the justice system, the great, white, marble edifice of law and order, the clean, bright, sterile halls where decisions are made, where lives are saved or lost, where guilt is assigned and innocence is declared, and you think about how it is not clean, how it is not bright, how it is not sterile, how it is dirty, how it is dark, how it is rotting from the inside out, how it is a machine that grinds up the good and the bad alike, that does not distinguish between the wheat and the chaff, that does not care about the truth, only about the procedure, only about the form, only about the appearance of justice, and you think about how you have served that machine, how you have fed it, how you have kept it running, how you have believed in it, how you have trusted it, how you have given it your best, your brightest, your most honest self, and how it has given you nothing, how it has taken everything, how it has hollowed you out, how it has left you empty, how it has made you a vessel for its own purposes, a tool for its own ends, a pawn in its own game, and you think about how you are tired, how you are so tired, how you are done, how you are finished, how you are ready to let go, ready to let go of the struggle, ready to let go of the fight, ready to let go of the lie, ready to let go of the truth, ready to let go of the river, ready to let go of the stone, ready to let go of the rain, ready to let go of the silence, ready to let go of the pain, ready to let go of the love, ready to let go of the life, ready to let go of the self, ready to let go of the name, ready to let go of the face, ready to let go of the body, ready to let go of the soul, ready to let go of everything, ready to let go of nothing, ready to be nothing, ready to be no one, ready to be gone, and you look at Eleanor again, and you see the tears in her eyes, the big, heavy, dark tears that fall onto the table, that pool and spread, that stain the wood, that mark the spot where you are sitting, that mark the spot where you are dying, that mark the spot where you are disappearing, and you reach out your hand, slowly, carefully, gently, and you take her hand in yours, and you squeeze it, just once, just a little, just enough to let her know that you are here, that you are still here, that you are still you, that you are still him, that you are still the man she loves, that you are still the man she lost, that you are still the man she will never have again, and you feel her hand in yours, warm and soft and real, and you feel the pulse in her wrist, strong and steady and alive, and you think about how life goes on, how the river keeps flowing, how the rain keeps falling, how the stone keeps standing, how the silence keeps waiting, how the truth keeps hiding, how the lie keeps telling, how the justice keeps failing, how the system keeps breaking, how the people keep suffering, how the hearts keep breaking, how the loves keep dying, how the lives keep ending, and you think about how it is all the same, how it is all the same, how it is all the same, and you close your eyes, and you let go, and you let go, and you let go, and the room fades, and the sound fades, and the smell fades, and the light fades, and the dark comes, and the dark stays, and the dark is all that is left, and the dark is all that matters, and the dark is all that is real, and the dark is all that is true, and the dark is all that is you, and the dark is all that is me, and the dark is all that is us, and the dark is all that is there, and the dark is all that is here, and the dark is all that is now, and the dark is all that is ever, and the dark is all that is always, and the dark is all that is forever, and the dark is all that is endless, and the dark is all that is infinite, and the dark is all that is eternal, and the dark is all that is divine, and the dark is all that is holy, and the dark is all that is sacred, and the dark is all that is pure, and the dark is all that is clean, and the dark is all that is bright, and the dark is all that is white, and the dark is all that is light, and the dark is all that is life, and the dark is all that is death, and the dark is all that is love, and the dark is all that is hate, and the dark is all that is joy, and the dark is all that is sorrow, and the dark is all that is hope, and the dark is all that is despair, and the dark is all that is peace, and the dark is all that is war, and the dark is all that is home, and the dark is all that is exile, and the dark is all that is you, and the dark is all that is me, and the dark is all that is us, and the dark is all that is there, and the dark is all that is here, and the dark is all that is now, and the dark is all that is ever, and the dark is all that is always, and the dark is all that is forever, and the dark is all that is endless, and the dark is all that is infinite, and the dark is all that is eternal, and the dark is all that is divine, and the dark is all that is holy, and the dark is all that is sacred, and the dark is all that is pure, and the dark is all that is clean, and the dark is all that is bright, and the dark is all that is white, and the dark is all that is light, and the dark is all that is life, and the dark is all that is death, and the dark is all that is love, and the dark is all that is hate, and the dark is all that is joy, and the dark is all that is sorrow, and the dark is all that is hope, and the dark is all that is despair, and the dark is all that is peace, and the dark is all that is war, and the dark is all that is home, and the dark is all that is exile, and the dark is all that is you, and the dark is all that is me, and the dark is all that is us, and the dark is all that is there, and the dark is all that is here, and the dark is all that is now, and the dark is all that is ever, and the dark is all that is always, and the dark is all that is forever, and the dark is all that is endless, and the dark is all that is infinite, and the dark is all that is eternal, and the dark is all that is divine, and the dark is all that is holy, and the dark is all that is sacred, and the dark is all that is pure, and the dark is all that is clean, and the dark is all that is bright, and the dark is all that is white, and the dark is all that is light, and the dark is all that is life, and the dark is all that is death, and the dark is all that is love, and the dark is all that is hate, and the dark is all that is joy, and the dark is all that is sorrow, and the dark is all that is hope, and the dark is all that is despair, and the dark is all that is peace, and the dark is all that is war, and the dark is all that is home, and the dark is all that is exile.