Chapter Text
Playing with memories is like the architecture in Legos. Empty spaces looked incomplete and empty spaces caused collapses.
The last required session before memory erasure at Lacuna inc. was to replace building memories, reintroduced keystone moments that held everything else together.
Meeting a loved one for the first time was replaced with a pleasant trip to the mechanic for a free belt suspension replacement. The grief of a trauma was replaced with the death of a short lived pet. Long medical recovers and physical therapy was replaced with sunny vacations.
And anywhere they could, the torment of experience was substituted with as much enjoyment as they could conjugate.
These slow hearts and minds that sought procedural ways to rid the claim on their happiness got creative every time. Before in those offices where they went bit by bit over pain they now started talking about how they always wanted to go to India, they always wanted to see the Natural History Museum, they always wanted a good memory of their grandmother's last Hanukah. Because a fake memory was just as good as a fake memory.
And Stiles really wanted something more than the pain that looked at him from the eye of a wine bottle.
He came in, thinking he'd have to recount more unshakable feelings and short drives at the acupuncture needles in his chest, sore little old sharp points that wouldn't pluck out.
"So what's it gonna be this time? Do we map out all the stuff I probably forgot to point out the first time around? Or is it the embarrassing Q&A portion where you tell me 'these are all standard question'?" Stiles asked. He had brought a travel mug, one of those bulky plastic ones you can design sleeves for, meant for parents with kids who needed reminders they were good parents. Stiles had made a sleeve with the design from a tv show meant to resemble the Starbucks logo.
Scott humoured him, laughing at the first real jokes he'd made in their entire session.
"We're actually doing the fun part of our time together," Scott explained. He pulled out a drawer full of small cables, picking out a few that were longer than he was tall. He connected a tiny laptop to a miniprojector set up to loom over head and project to a stark white wall on the opposing side.
"With all the memories we're erasing, we have to replace them with something for continuity so you don't go crazy," he said, closing the blinds to the windows.
"Definitely don't wanna go bonkers," Stiles sunk in to his seat, propping his feet up on the plastic coffee table.
"Ever had a dream vacation? Maybe Peru or the Bahamas?" Scott asked as he pulled up a presentation file on the projector. The first slide was a beach, the cliche cervicé and parasols with a rolling white tide crashing under a perfect photoshopped sky. The logo of Lacuna rolled on to the image, rebranded as a travel agency.
"A vacation?" Stiles said, sipping his coffee. "My entire relationship is going to be replaced with a vacation?"
"Given the length of your relationship, it might have to be a series of getaways," Scott added. "We use the back drop of the travel agency to stay in contact with you in case you experience any subsequent because of the treatment. We haven't had to for any patient but it's a safety net for the 'just in cases'"
"Finger crossed…So do I just get to pick a package getaway and then you toss it in my head while you're poking around at the last minute?"
"Something like that," Scott says, getting a glare full from Stiles that he chuckles off. "We make your dream vacation, pack it full of insightful and soul searching memories, some people request some summer romances. One woman quoted the plot of How Stella Got Her Groove Back…."
Stiles scoffs as potent images from infomercials and stock photo website go across the wall. They're all treated with a glossy red sunset overlay, the kind of fake tactile imagery that seems posed and stagnant. The kind of fantasies that stretched across the faces of honeymoon couples and Stella needs her groove back women when they pull out their facebook photo albums to show off. The kind of fantasy that doesn't seem like it was real when you return to your job and broken home appliances you never got the super to fix. He was going to replace Derek with that.
"Can I go to Poland?" Stiles bemused out loud.
Scott pauses, hoping he's not hitting the point of regret in Stiles. This is Scott's favorite part of treatment, he got to mold tangible thoughts and feelings that weren't painful. He was one of the original testers when the therapy was introduced, all for being the mental tour guide through Barcelona, the Amazon River, Shibuya's 109 shopping mall, the steps of the Lincoln Monument. He's officiated so many weddings based off of just photos and youtube videos from the hotel's they were held at. He got to use memories like legos and his childhood creativity made the beautiful architectural cityscapes. But if those memories weren't believable, they didn't stick. His brightly coloured models would come crashing down and he's have to start over again.
"My grandmother died last year," Stiles explained. "Never told Derek because he would have made me go and we…we were at the fun part of the relationship where I just wanted to be around him all the time. So I didn't see her off. I'd really like to have a memory of her."
"…Was she the grandmother with the recipe? The one you wrote in the notebook?" Scott asked.
"Yeah. Yeah she was." Stiles said, sipping away at his coffee and circling the rubber handle with his thumb.
Scott bit his lip, thinking back to a similar case a few months ago when a woman wanted to replace her divorce with a year in Switzerland where her daughter goes to school. He thought he might be able to reuse some details, motivate the same kind of feelings in Stiles. "We can do that," He said, switching out of presentation mode and pulling up a window to google.
--
Scott meets the boy that caused a war in Stiles' heart two days before his last session.
Derek was as pale as the matching canvas that he had been in love with. But Stiles never mentioned the highlighted black stroke features that Derek had. His face was full of celestial curves in moon shade skin, comets coming out of his cheek bones and Cygnus's craning neck. He looked like a boy who could launch a thousand ships.
And when he walks into Scott's office, they're unaware. Scott has no idea that this Derek is the Derek. One look and he knew that Derek once had the navy of an empire in his pocket but he was naïve as to who had a hand on the switch that launched those ships.
It's protocol first, the sugar sweet kindness that needed to soften and soothe purple and red eyes. Scott asked him what memory he wanted to erase.
Scott had dealt with a few special cases that he couldn't see straight with and needed some creative solution to lead it all forward. And when he had to convince a person to seek other option aside from memory erasure, his creativity was ill matched. He understood and empathized with patients who were in such pain that they sought treatment but he never had words to explain to them the pain of not being able to remember why they hurt.
The kind of tip of your tongue memories that glaze over in a person's head. It was knowing a piece of music, knowing where you learned it, how long it was, what the page looked like and even the notions scrawled across the margins in pencil or ink. It was knowing but not remembering and wracking your memories in vain. That kind of pain with something traumatic is cruel. It is cruel to take away a missing piece of torture and have it linger in the fibers of every shirt, the grooves of every spoon, every droplet of rain.
Scott could remove memories and suggest alternative realities, but he couldn't replace habitual pain.
And Scott had to convince Derek not to rid himself of his family.
"I lived in California till I was 13 when it happened," Derek spoke slowly, his words like needles to walk over. "There had been a girl I was dating. She disconnected the gas main in our basement and started a fire in our living room…"
Scott could only nod, keeping the calm in the room that was set by the automatic air freshener and the warming smell of coffee.
"I need to get rid of that night," Derek said.
"You just want to replace the night that it happened?" Scott asked.
Derek nodded in reply. He laced his fingers together, some nervous habit he developed after sharing the same thoughts and sentences over and over again, perfected from years of therapy.
"Thank you for telling me, Derek. I know this is very hard for you. But I do have to ask, are you currently seeing any kind of therapist?" Scott asked.
"Yes. I've had a psychiatrist for the past five years and a rehabilitation therapist I check in to see every six months," he explained, avoiding eye contact.
"I know it may not be relevant to what we're doing, but can I ask why you have a rehabilitation specialist?"
"No, it's relevant. I've been recovering from a dependency. I've been sober for nine years but I still see her as a help to myself."
"Can you tell me what you had a dependency to?"
Derek stared at the floor, no nervous ticks or lazy movements to distract himself. He sat, hunched forward, slowly cradling in on himself as he shared more and more.
"This isn't easy, Derek. This kind of therapy brings up everything you want to forget. But whatever you tell me will stay in this room and everything we discuss will be eventually what we'll try to replace with something else, something happier." Scott said. He wanted to reach out and hold Derek's hands, comfort him in some way. But he got the unsavory feeling it wouldn't help.
Derek swallowed and readjusted his posture, still curled forward. "OxyCotin. It was a problem for six months until I was admitted to an ER by my uncle… I had passed out and stopped breathing."
"Why were you prescribed OxyCotin?" Scott asked.
"3rd degree burns and a cracked femur," Derek said, clearing his throat. "I was in a lot of pain."
"And they were from the fire?" Scott asks.
Derek paused, reaching for the glass of water in front of him on the table. He took a short drink and set it down, the voice recorder registering the clink of glass on wood.
It was against Lacuna policy to assume during session but Scott tended to move around uneasy questions for the sake of patient comfort. Coming back when patients were more willing to open up. He asked instead, "Can you tell me how long you've been going to therapy."
"I've been seeing my psychiatrist for five years," Derek repeated.
"I mean in general. How long have you been in regular therapy?" Scott asked.
Derek didn't answer, taking big slow breaths in between moments where he couldn't keep his breathing steady. His shoulders shrugged impulsively in small circles, readjusting his nervously. He'd changed drastically since walking in through Scott's office door, the stoic façade of confidence crumbling away like charcoal.
"Derek, why did you come in today?" Scott asked.
"I need," he sighed, exiting every worry that was held up in his lungs. "I need to get rid of that night. I can't have it ruining my life anymore."
"What has it ruined?" Scott asked, then quickly rephrasing, "I mean, what has happened that made you come in?"
"I was in a relationship. My psychiatrist explained that I needed to stop associating what happens to me as my fault. She said I can't use it as an excuse to give up," Derek explained.
"Who did you give up on?" Scott asked.
Derek mused on the name dancing on his lips, how he couldn't even explain his reasoning for having abandoned someone who cared about him so much. He had regret so malleable and tough that he could chew it like a cud, rocking back and forth in his teeth and tearing up the flesh of his gums. Keeping everything between him and his lump of regret was easy, tightening his jaw was like the lock of a diary.
He stayed quiet, warring at the seal his mouth kept and trying to put what he'd done in to words.
Scott thought it was a good time for tea, honeyed chamomile to soothe and coax the words from his throat. "You're doing great, Derek. I know this is very difficult and you've done great so far. I think you need a break.
"I'm going to get us some tea. You can stretch your legs or walk around for a few minutes if you want." Scott stood up, adjusting his shirt collar, a singular habit.
He normally doesn't do this, use k cups like handkerchiefs and tissues to sodden with tension and misery. He doesn't normally have tea leaf salves that he layers over wounds. But its the sugar sweetness of chamomile that Derek needs.
The break room is plain as ever, an endearing Halloween mug on the drying rack by the sink. Scott immediately picked it up, going to the hot water pump on the old coffee machine. It only ran in the early mornings, turning off at 2pm for energy conservation because the constant burning plate ate up nickels and dimes for no reason.
Scott raided the tea cupboard, finding the small of chamomile blossoms hidden behind a spinning rack full of single serve lipton bags. He spooned just a few the dried buds out, favoring the smaller ones tightly bound in on themselves.
The chamomile he hid exuded the type of influenced happiness that antidepressants did, a subtle short cure in tender swimming flowers. It tasted like sunshine, like smiles, all the supercilious child fascinations in creamscicles and nostalgic sugar cookies.
He never made himself a cup, investing in the supply as long as he could, but Scott always took in the steam as it enveloped his overworked and empathetic heart.
When he went to leave, one of the other therapists walked in to the break room with an empty mug. She patted Scott on the back as she passed by, moving to open up the dishwasher near the sink. She was one of the original technicians and therapists who formed the practice with Dr. Deaton, a brilliant woman in red, Lydia.
They exchanged small hellos, unneeded after clocking in together that morning over their first cup of coffee. She mentioned that her dog, a chocolate lab named Francis, had stopped barking at cars at night and her last patient was an easy case of heart break. Lydia was a cupid, preferring to fix broken hearts than broken spirits.
Scott asked her, "Have you ever had a patient who was already in therapy?"
"Like behavioral therapy?" Lydia answered, mulling over the range of patients and clients she'd treated while digging around in the cabinets for boxes of rice chips. "A couple. I think I've had two. Natalie….S? and Colin H. This woman, Natalie, had been molested and it affected her so badly because she had been diagnosed with GAD around five months before that. And Colin had a…no, he was coming out of a tattoo removal treatment…
"I've had one, then. Why do you ask? Is your current giving you trouble?" She asked, leaning on the counter top.
"This guy lost his family in a fire and he's asking me to erase the night it happened. He still hasn't told me when it happened but I'm assuming he was a teenager. I sympathize but I don't know how to go that far back for erasure," Scott explained.
"Is he seeing a therapist for this memory?" She asked.
"I think so, he didn't say. He still sees the rehab therapist from the fire."
"Still? How old is he?"
"About 30."
Lydia chewed for a moment, the murkiness of her thoughts clouding up her expression. She reached out and placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. Locking eyes, she said so soundly, "Send him home."
"Can't we-"
"Send him home, Scott. If you want to help him, tell him why you can't. You'd have to annul every family tie until he thought he was an orphan and then he'd wonder for the rest of his life where he came from. You can't do that to someone."
"We can't do anything?"
"Try…asking him about what his family had been like. Ask about christmases or kindergarten graduations. Dig for the good memories and ask if he can get rid of those."
"What if he says he can?"
"He won't"
"But if he can?"
"If he can," Lydia sighed, "I'll help you with the mapping. But you should try to talk him out of it… Good luck, Scott."
"Thanks, Lydia. I gotta get back. I'll keep you posted," Scott said, nodding as he left.
When Scott came back in to the room, he saw Derek standing over his desk, unmoving as the door clicked shut. Scott cleared his throat, just loud enough to illicit attention.
Derek faced him, the feather softness of fear in his pale cheeks. That fear was palpable, a white hot electric radiance that reached in all directions. And the colour leaving draining out past his neck was like the after effects of spilled bleach, every drop a mistake.
He held the red spiral bound notebook that Stiles had left in his hands, his thumbs fitting in the permanent groove from years of clutching.
The horror that he found it seemed like a cruel jokes. Leaving it out in the open, right on the desk where everything else was a starch white and beige. The beckoning faded crimson and chicken scratch signature, wisps of perforated paper edges trapped in the coil like angelic down.
"Where did you get this?" Derek demanded, the strain of shock nestled in his throat coming out like a terrified snake.
And like an epiphany, he became Derek. Scott realized that there was no other Derek in the world, there would never be another Derek. Like a mythological Apollo or biblical David, there's no greater significance than a tragic hero to evoke an unforgettable fable. There was only one Derek, standing there on the shore, waiting for a fleet to save him.
"Where did you get this?" He repeated, a smaller voice tinged with frustration, calling out like the only answer was an echo.
"Derek," Scott said, the coo of his own voice wavering. He didn't know how to handle this. Derek was going to be hit by a freight train and Scott couldn’t do a thing about it but try to calm him down.
"Derek, why don't you sit down, we can talk some more.
"Derek, just come ov- You can sit on the floor, Derek. Just sit down, breathe.
"Derek, just breathe."
-
The day to erase Derek comes like heavy fog.
"During the procedure, you'll be awake for the first ten minutes. We go over your replaced memory and I have you repeat it in your own words. I ask that you do it without acknowledging it as a replacement. You have to accept that it will be your reality. I ask a few questions, you answer the best you can. Sometimes it helps if you imagine me as a coworker you would have already talked to or as a friend you would tell your trip about. You could imagine that you're talking to your father, if it'd help you.
"Then I'll inject you in the temple with a very small needle. We call them bee stings. It might get a little red after but it shouldn't look or feel any different from a bug bite.
"I can't tell you what the experience will be like during the effects of the erasure. We've done extensive testing to see how the brain reacts to the stimuli and memory suggestion, we know which areas it interacts on a chemical level. But we don't know what you'll be experiencing. You won't either since the process will ultimately remove that as well.
"It's not for certain, but it should feel like a really trippy dream. Those ones where everything is kinda loose and saturated with weird cartoony stuff."
The words wash over Stiles, sinking in that his created vision of a life without Derek will be a reality. It's surprisingly easy to digest. He'll wake up and never have to think about Derek again. He'll sleep soundly, never dreaming about his face, his hands, or his laugh.
"There's no chance I'll wake up in the middle, is there?" He asks. He's been reclined in a medical chair. It reminds him of what's used in a dentist offices, the mirror and sink torn away. Scott gave him a pillow to put under his back when he complained about the tension the first time. Scott's taken care of everything. He wished Scott could be here.
"No chance at all. We don't use an anesthetic, actually. You go under through deep suggested hypnosis, it gives us a better control over your brain activity and suggestion."
"And there won't be any pain?" He asked. He didn't have trouble connecting with this new technician. She was abundantly smart and confident, a brilliance that Scott had made up for in how kind he was. He trusted that confidence.
"Aside from what'll feel like a caffeine headache tomorrow, you shouldn't experience any pain."
"Sounds good, doc. Let's get rolling," Stiles said, he was already feeling exhausted.
"So I do have to tell you, while we're undergoing the question portion before you're put under, I can't break character. But if you feel at any time that you want to stop, we immediately stop. Before the injection, everything we do can immediately stop and you have the choice of walking out. You're in control of everything that happens, okay?"
"Okay." He said.
"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"
"…yeah," He answered.
"Alright. I'm going ask again after I fit you with the equipment."
Lydia wouldn’t write down that Stiles hesitated. She wouldn't make note that he had the kind of glare in his eye that she's seen in sleep deprived patients who are unfit to make medical decision. This case was already a mess and she wanted it out of the office.
She never wanted to be a grief counselor. Lydia understood the torment felt in patients with ptsd and anxieties related to emotional trauma. She could see it on in confidence without letting it cloud her judgement. But when she saw someone grieving over the loss of every opportunity they thought could cure them, she had to step back and readjust.
When Scott asked her to take over the Stiles S. case, she understood. When he told her that he couldn't act within the best interests of two patients, she understood. When he said that he can't ask Stiles "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" without convincing him that he shouldn't, she understood.
"This equipment shouldn't feel uncomfortable but tell me if it does," she explained, fashioning velcro covers to Stiles' fingers and forehead. The lined black nylon fit snuggly, matching well the with sensation of her hands against his scalp.
"Can I tell you something kind of weird?" He asked, palming at the finger covers, feeling animated and unreal.
"Sure," Lydia busied herself with the monitor set up, importing all the files that had been gathered on the iPad during the last session. There were at least a hundred photos of Tarnów, a small tourist town in Poland in its peak seasonal months, and the calm warrior smile of Stiles' grandmother in her home, bundled up in hand knit afghans and bunny slippers.
"I'm gonna miss Scott. He's about the only person I've talked to outside of work in months," Stiles laughed, thinking it was absurd. "I know that sounds really pathetic, but it's true."
"I don't think that's pathetic. He'd be really touched to hear that," Lydia said, keeping her eyes fixed on the monitor. "We don't get to hear it all that often. I'm sorry he couldn't be here today."
"Was it something that I did?" Stiles asks, rocking his feet back and forth in the chair.
"No, not at all. It's something he did. He's been needing to take some time off," She said. "Maybe you'll meet again someday. Everybody deserves a clean slate."
"Maybe…" He trailed off, staring at the popcorn ceiling.
"We're just about ready," Lydia said, disconnecting the tablet and placing it back with the projector. She loaded up the first slide show, the old withered building Stiles' grandmother raised her children in standing strong in a lush aged photo. She closed the blinds, darkening the office.
"I'm going to sit right by you, it's important that you utilize the details you provided. Little things you can link together help the suggested memory become more tactile for you," Lydia explained, pulling over a rolling chair beside him. "Smells, textures, and atmosphere can be very observant memory markers."
"Right…"
"Are you sure you absolutely sure you want to do this, Stiles?" Lydia asked, catching him off guard.
Stiles took in a breathe that clotted down his throat like gravel, "Yes. I absolutely do."
--
When he remembers him he sees the ocean in his eyes. Not the sandy beaches or the cloud cover or the pristine auxiliary colours in pinks and blues that exist nowhere else in nature. He sees the murky tide pool greens, clusters of sea foam that carry home Aphrodite and her kissing faith, where insignificant worlds house microbes and mollusks.
He can see the first time he got lost in his hands, falling forward coming out of his old apartment building where the chipped steps made with the will of divine sculptors' had he trip on the tinniest imperfection.
He remembers the touch of their chests when their song played on a shallow speed, accompanied by the bird song of cooing pigeons and cackling cry of ravens. Their own squawking laughter spoke promises and vows, so subtle that their meanings form languages that birds couldn't mimic.
There were films they entangled fingers to, messages coded with concern, and seasons that passed with heat and exhaustion.
He remembers their naked forms, fumbling together in the absence of feelings, so disregarded with insults and dirty talk that they remained silent. He remembers hating their silence, hating their lack of speech where awkward reticence hung around like ghosts. He remembers hurting, caged in intangible band aids and gauze with the perfume of Neosporin following at his ankles. He carried around grief in his shadow, all-consuming of the light he sought out.
He remember and remember and then in the turning flame of memory, it flickered and flickered
And flickered
And flickered
Running down to the wick
Where the alum͙̞̱i̗n͎͉̘u͍̘̙̗m̪̦̖̞̹͎ base stood strong
Melting wax and melting m̆ͯ͛̆elt̡iǹg me̶lting ͜me͝tal
And the runny textures of paint replaced when they first met. The staircase becoming porous, becoming glue that captured his feet.
The night they first had sex slowed down, like a dream where running couldn't bring up speed. The chase down that hallway of that beautiful hotel of that impromptu getaway of that wonderful night was concave, collapsing in so that they never reached the door.
Collapsing so thaͯ̓ͫt̒ ͣ͗͂ͮ̉t́͂̂ͩ̊hͫ͛ey couldn't touch the floórrŗ
Col͆̑͆lͫ͌͋̾̎̊ā̾̈ͣpͤ̈́ͮ̇ͮs̓iͥͭ̓̉̏ͧn̓̅̌ͫͮ̏g so that they coȕ͂lͯdͭ̊̎̈̿n̉'̀̿͑̂ͬtͪ͒̐̓̌ ͗̎pa̽w at the ground
Collapsing col͗ͥ͌̾̔ͨl̐ͩͧap̋͑̓ͩ̚sͨin̔̈́ͣͩ͌̓g̑̇͆̇̓̑ col̇̈́ͥ̂l͑̇̿̉a̓̾ͫp͋̎̿̄ͣͬs͒ͮ̈́̓ͬ͛̆ȋ̎͐͋̋ͮng so that they tͫ̅͋̓͗̒ͣ̌̑h̅̽̆̌ͮͫͬͨ͑eͫ̎̊̇̂͑ͭ͌y̓ͥͮͯͪ ͯ̈́t̓ͬ͂ͮ̌̏̓hͤ̂̆ͧ̅͑̓̆eͭ̍̾͑ͩͩ̓y̔ͯ
They were running on black, endless blank black canvas spe͜ck͡led͡ ̵wi̕th̕ freckles
Canvas skin
Canvas skin
He made so many jokes about turning his freckles in to connect-the-dot patterns, his canvas skin printed like a nebula and their sex injury bruises just became newly discovered Hawking black holes and galaxies on that caAN͝V̀͠A̶͟S͢͠ ̴S̴̵K̛͡I̵͢N̢̕.
They were so normal. They were so relatable. Two boys with problems who fell in love and then out. They were so n̸͡o̶̸ŕ̕m҉a͘l. They were so f̛i͜xa̡b̷͟le̕͡. T̏̀hͦ̊͑ͤ͂̆ey were so so
So
So
So
So
So
Soon he'll wake up and not remember a world, of a whole culture he evicted from his mind.
--
Scott took a leave of absence. He referred to it like that even when HR told him he had paid vacation he needed to use. But he still said it because it's what you do when take time to atone.
He was spending his first Saturday alone when he got a call from Lydia. She had been out, by herself or with friends, she didn't say, but some she had some emergency. She hung up without having him speak, yelling out an address he barely had time to jot down.
She was at a bar downtown, something trendy between a cellphone store and a restaurant that couldn't be pronounced. Its yellow light logo hung above the door, a swirly neon script that glared like the front of a train.
He found Lydia by the door, a table opposite the bar that straddled the wall where graffiti on landscapes of sandy beaches hung high near the ceiling, out of reach and out of mind.
She didn't say anything, just waved him down and patted the edge of her small table.
Sipping a gin and tonic, she pointed to two a few seats down, some silhouettes made out in the ornate spotlights shining down on patrons. It was a clear vision of canvas skin, bathed in blue neon like phosphoresce. All their clean white teeth were bright in the light, laughing in and out of disappearing faces.
"How...long have they been there?" He said, so caught up the blaring music that it faded to Lydia like it belonged in the beat line.
Lydia leaned toward him, eyes steady ahead, "About an hour. I'm just keeping watch."
"Did you…?" He trailed off, the question lingering that he couldn't finish.
"I didn't do anything. Stiles' treatment went great and he wrote us a review like everybody else," She explained.
"Did Derek see you for-" He asked.
"No," Lydia said, pulling her phone out she checked the time. "Nobody's been in that brain. But I told him Stiles doesn't remember him."
"You…No, Lydia you can't-"
"I told him an hour ago," She said, unwavering. "Off the clock."
Scott didn't say anything, just staring at the side of Lydia's face. Even through the soft red eyeshadow and foundation, he saw the curl of laugh lines and lavender sleep deprivation.
She looked at him, attested and sure, "Everybody deserves a clean slate."