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Blood and Talent

by Jamie M. Boyd

William Bird was sweeping up at the end of the day when a white man barreled into his barbershop like a runaway stagecoach. The man carried a mess of a younger fella in his arms and cried out, “Help, he needs the Touch!”

When Bird saw the gaping stomach wound, his first thought was another mining accident. He motioned to the cot in the back, raised his hand and tried to staunch the flow of blood with his mind. Energy drained from him like water and traveled into the young man. It crackled and branched and–oh.

Bird went cold as his eyes flew open. He could feel the lacerations, trace them where they were too blood-saturated to see. And this was no gash made from explosives. It’d been inflicted by magic.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I’m not sure—maybe an animal got ‘im?” the man replied in an Irish accent. “He’s my son. My younger boy found him outside and came screaming for help.”

Bird’s mind whirled. Magic had been legal coming on thirteen years now, ever since the Freedom of Religion and Talented Arts Act of 1865 narrowly passed at the end of the United States’ Civil War. But most folks were still suspicious, if not downright hostile, thinking such things were the work of the devil. As a result, he was the only open practitioner in all of Virginia City, Nevada. And he only knew of one other person with the potential–his daughter, Adiah.

But it couldn’t be.

Bird held his breath and reached out with the Touch, imagining the young man’s muscles knitting together. As he did, he glanced at the patient’s long, slack face, then down at his jaunty red boots. Recognition struck.

It was Eddie Powers, the same young troublemaker who’d confronted him outside the Delta Saloon three months back, swaying with drink, jabbing his finger, declaring he would rather die than let someone like him lay a hand on him. At the time, Bird didn’t know if Powers was offended by the color of his skin, his magic, or both. Once Eddie started to caress the gun at his hip, Bird hadn’t stuck around to find out.

Now Bird hesitated, and the young man’s wound gushed anew.

“Why’d you stop?” the father yelped. “He’s dying.”

“He once made it clear he didn’t like my…type. If he survives, he might come hunting for me.”

The father hesitated. “If he survives, I’ll get you an apology. In the meantime, I’m the one paying. So save him.”

Bird frowned. He didn’t like being ordered around, but his conscience required he act. He nodded.

An hour passed and, as he worked his magic, Eddie’s little brother crept into the shop, face pale as he clung to his father’s side. When he finished, Bird fell back limply in a chair.

“Will he be okay?” the little brother asked in a voice even smaller than he was. He looked about seven.

Bird rubbed his jaw. He didn’t want to scare the boy, but Eddie’s father needed the truth. “Hard to know. I did everything I could, but he’s in a bad way. Now that’s he’s stable, you could take him to Saint Mary’s.”

The father snorted. “At $20 a week? Why’d you think I came here?” Then he groaned and put his head in his hands. “I must be cursed. First my Cora dies, and now this. At least she didn’t have to witness her eldest son…well, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The safe thing would be for Bird to nod and agree, so he did. But he’d always been a terrible liar.

---

Bird started home well after dark. He worried the whole way—as he walked past the tall, wooden facade of the local hardware store, now closed; as he bypassed the red-light district and cut through the stamping mill, where the whirl and clank of machines had fallen silent but the air still tasted of dust and metal and smelled vaguely of sulfur; as he crossed the railroad tracks and headed into Lower Town, where the poorest whites and folks of various other shades made their homes. By the time he arrived, the slowly gathering dread in his gut boiled down to a single question.

If someone was using their talent for violent ends, how long before they hung the crime on a convenient black man?

When he’d first come to town nearly two decades earlier, he’d never intended on advertising his talent. It was before the Civil War broke out and, as the son of an escaped slave and a free man of color from Ohio, he’d heard the frontier offered remarkable opportunities. He’d ventured West, following the Comstock silver rush, opening a safe little barbershop on C Street. He kept his abilities to himself, as his parents taught him. His clients might’ve noticed their hair seemed thicker after a visit, with bald patches growing back, but he credited a special hair tonic.

Then came the Yellow Jacket Mine Fire of 1869.

He’d hurried outside when he smelled the smoke that April morning, then ran toward the screams. Miners poured out of the shafts, collapsing as their skin peeled off in long sheets, black clouds billowing behind them. He didn’t even think; he healed every man he could ‘til he dropped from fatigue.

Word got out. Afterward, new customers came by for a haircut and just happened to mention a bad knee, an aching tooth. He didn’t charge at first. Then one morning a line of sick men twisted around the block.

The old sheriff hadn’t been happy. He’d shut Bird down for the day and cited him for causing a public disturbance and practicing medicine without a license. Apparently, two local doctors were up in arms he’d run them out of business.

Their gall awakened something defiant in him. Bird paid the fine, then did some research.

Turned out dentists and healers who practiced traditional medicine like acupuncture weren’t yet regulated in Nevada, which had only become a state in 1864. He could legally advertise as practicing both, so he did. His daughter sewed a bright blue flag with a golden “T” for Touch embroidered on it, and he’d hung it alongside his traditional barber’s pole.

Business was good. Even as the gold and silver rush slowed, his ledger remained in the black thanks to his dual income streams. He’d been trying to convince Adiah to come help after school. She needed training, and he needed the extra set of hands.

But now, as he approached his home, he questioned the wisdom of so publicly outing them both.

He paused on his front steps. The scent of dinner wafted outside, something rich and savory, maybe stew or at least potatoes and a nice, thick gravy. Healing always left him famished, and his stomach grumbled as he entered the two-room cabin.

The living area was spare but tidy. Adiah stood at the stove, a dark, thick braid hanging down her back. Bird smiled as he inhaled. At 14, she was almost as good a cook as her mother’d been.

“Sorry I’m late.” Bird walked straight to the tiny wooden table and sat down.

Adiah ladled something into a bowl and followed suit. “Busy day?”

As she passed the potatoes, Bird explained that he had a new patient. “I’ve got Thompson watching over him now, but I have to go back after this,” he said between mouthfuls. “I hate to leave you alone overnight, but he needs monitoring.”

“I’ll be fine. What’s his name?”

“Eddie Powers.”

A shadow flickered across her face.

Disquiet grew in Bird’s chest, and an old memory uncoiled–a dead stray cat, its injuries so much like Eddie’s. But he kept his tone light. “You know him?”

“We used to go to school together.”

“School? He’s a grown man.”

She shrugged. “He was held back two times before he dropped out last year.”

Bird frowned. He’d always been proud his daughter attended school with all the other children in town. Most white folks around these parts—a mix of Union loyalists and dirt-poor immigrants who lacked families—were more interested in building their fortunes than policing racial divisions. Nevertheless, he and the other black residents in Virginia City had to push hard to get the school integrated, including contributing a significant sum to the building’s construction and lining more than a few politicians’ pockets.

Still, Bird had always assumed Adiah attended class with students her age.

She sighed. “Poor Ben, he’ll be so upset.”

Bird recalled the haunted-looking younger brother who’d come to see Eddie.

“He’s a nice boy. Gentle. Maybe nine years old?” Adiah continued. “Nothing like Eddie—he’s pure trouble.”

Bird’s eyebrows rose. It wasn’t like Adiah to be so blunt. And those injuries…anyone who had the power to bind flesh together could also rip it apart. “Did something happen? Did Eddie try to hurt you? Because if you defended yourself, no one would blame you.”

She scowled. “What are you talking about?

“Eddie’s injuries, they’re from the Touch.”

“You think I hurt him?”

His response came slow and halting, like an old mine cage creaking its way toward daylight. “Of course not. But the wounds, they looked just like when you….”

She shrunk away. “That was an accident. And it was years ago, right after Ma died.” Her expression called him a traitor for even bringing it up.

“Look, I remember how hard it was to control when I was your age. And you won’t let me teach you anything, to make it easier.”

“Stop.” She pushed away from table. “I don’t want these powers. That’s why I won’t let you train me. I’d never do something like that.” She stalked toward the small ladder that led to her bed in the attic loft.

“I know you wouldn’t, not unless you had to.”

She whirled. “No. I’d never hurt someone, or something, ever again. No. Matter. What.” Her hands shook. Her chest heaved. Her power crackled in the air.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” He used the voice he normally reserved for spooked horses.

She glowered and climbed the rungs. Then she crawled into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers over her head. Her voice muffled: “Go away.”

“We should talk about this.”

“Your patient needs you.”

Bird hated that she was right. Once he healed someone, the threads he wove lingered for days, sometimes weeks, connecting them on a deeper level, warning him when something was wrong. And they tugged at him now–had been tugging for some time.

“Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’ll be all right?”

Silence.

“Lock up after I go. You know where the shotgun is.”

Nothing.

“I love you.”

---

Bird spent that night and most of the next day tending his patient. But the young man didn’t improve. The wounds Bird fused kept breaking apart. Then Eddie spiked a fever.

When Bird woke the second morning on the floor next to Eddie’s cot, he knew. He jumped up and checked Eddie’s pulse, but it was too late. Bird staggered out of the back room, past the row of swivel chairs to the front of his shop, glaring accusingly at his reflection in the wall of mirrors. He’d lost several pounds for all his failed efforts.

The bell on his shop door jangled. He glanced out the window at the bleary-morning dawn. Maybe it was Adiah, come to bring him breakfast and patch things up before school. His spirits lifted as he rushed toward the door.

The figure standing outside was petite and female. But by the time he threw open the lock, he recognized his mistake. “Good morning, Investigator Firinne.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bird. May I please come in?”

A woman detective would normally be unheard of in these parts, but Investigator Rose Firinne was the only daughter of the town’s beloved and aging sheriff, who had also installed his six sons as deputies and jailers.

“How are you and your patient?” she asked, long skirts swishing as she entered.

He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid Mr. Powers just passed.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I learned of his injuries late yesterday. I’d hoped he’d improved, so I could talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

A prickling sensation traveled up his spine as she studied him with a frankness he was unaccustomed to in a woman, particularly a pretty blonde in her twenties. There was something uncanny about her.

“I hope it wouldn’t be too crass to ask after the nature of Mr. Powers’ wounds?” she said. “I’ve already spoken with his family.”

“Please, see for yourself.” He guided her over to the body, debating how much to volunteer. “At first, I thought he’d been in a mining accident—”

“Except there’s no burns or powder residue,” she finished, examining the dead young man’s skin with cool detachment. “I’ve already visited where he was found. No sign of any sort of explosion or gunfight, either.”

“You work quickly. Do you have any suspects?”

She swiveled her grey eyes to him, and his heartbeat jumped. Then she shrugged. “No one. Everyone. The young Mr. Powers wasn’t well liked. He gambled too much, cheated at cards and dice, borrowed from friends, stole from strangers, bounced from job to job.”

“Still, no man deserves this.” He covered the body with a sheet and led the investigator back to the front.

“Actually, the most recent person to have an issue with Mr. Powers was your daughter,” she said as she followed.

A coughing fit struck him. When it subsided, he turned. “Adiah? Impossible.” Inside, he crumbled. Had she lied?

“Three days ago, he and some buddies were not far from the Fourth Ward School. She and her friends were walking home, and he called after them using…inappropriate language. She walked right up and slapped him across the face.”

Bird grimaced. Back east, slapping a white man could get a young girl in serious trouble. But he nodded slowly. “Good.”

Surprise flickered across Investigator Firinne’s features.

“I taught her to stand up for herself, to not accept that kind of behavior from any man.”

“I…see.”

“And if you’re implying that makes her responsible for his death, that’s the biggest load of horseshit I ever heard.”

Miss Firinne blushed. “I’d agree, except,” her voice dropped almost too soft to hear, “we both know those wounds weren’t made by any traditional weapon.”

He faltered. The heat on his neck rose up his face, crawled down his back. “So? I’m the only open magic practitioner in this town. Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“The Touch runs in families, which makes you and your daughter my prime persons of interest, whether I like it or not. And, for the record, I don’t like it. I need more information. Can you give it to me?”

A suspicion itched at the back of his mind. He glanced out his shop window, where morning light ripened and townsfolk stirred. Townsfolk, perhaps, with something to hide. “You want to know if there are any secret practitioners.”

She smiled sweetly. “Exactly.”

He supposed she was right. Other settlers likely had talent and simply hid it out of caution or shame, and not just those with the Touch. Some with the Ear could hear people’s most secret thoughts. Others with Sight could sense the future. In the old days, those types were run out of town—or worse—based on others’ fears or jealousies. The wild West would be the perfect place for them to start fresh.

Still, Bird bristled. “You realize the danger in that question?”

“I do.”

“I doubt that. You’ve never had to listen to your parents talk about—” he stopped himself as his voice shook. His mother had whispered of plantation owners who sought out slaves with obvious talent, then forced them to use their abilities to hurt or help as the owners saw fit. Some could sense magic in others, and their families were threatened if they didn’t out anyone else with talent. It was one of the many reasons his mother risked escape.

Bird steadied his voice. “That sort of thinking has gotten my people killed. Tortured. Worse.”

Miss Firinne paled. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry, you’d never have asked in the first place.” He stalked to the door, yanked it open, motioned her out.

Her face hardened. “A man is dead, and I need to find his killer. Eddie’s funeral will be in a few days. You could attend, see if you sense anything. Just try, that’s all I ask.”

“Who’d bother paying their respects?”

“Don’t you know?” She straightened haughtily. “His mother died the day before he was attacked. She’d been fighting cancer for years. She was brave and kind right to the end. The family is going to bury them together. Half the town will be there.”

---

The wind whipped across the ridge and through the crowd gathered at the Silver Terrace Cemetery that Saturday. Two caskets lay side by side on the Powers family plot fenced by ornate, iron fretwork and dry scrub brush.

The priest’s eulogy washed over Bird. His stomach roiled as he doubted whether he could do as Investigator Firinne demanded. Most people who had the Touch didn’t have any other talent. The fact he was an exception didn’t help much either. His mother, a mid-wife with the Touch, had taught him everything she knew about healing. But his father, who had the Ear, had offered only one lesson:

Son, being able to listen to folks’ thoughts is a fast train to heartache and insanity. Best not ride at all.

The troubled man had showed him how to build a wall around those powers and shut the noise out. Bird had been holding up that wall for almost four decades now, and he wasn’t sure how to let it down. It was like unclenching a fist so numb, it didn’t exist anymore.

He tried anyway. He focused on the people around him, boring his gaze into their faces, willing himself to hear. And…nothing. Just the pounding of his own heart, his insides twisting.

So he pushed deeper, stabbing at their thoughts. But if anything, he perceived less.

Well, at least he tried. Sighing, he closed his eyes and relaxed. He let his mind wander and flow like the wild wind around him, spiraling. How–? His breath caught as he suddenly rode like a prairie falcon on the feelings of…

His daughter. Adiah’s emotions gathered like a thundercloud. Sad, sullen, lonely. The ceremony reminded her of her mother’s funeral, the day she—

Bird pushed the thoughts away, partly because it felt like a violation of privacy and partly, if he was honest, because he didn’t want to feel the pain. It was still too sharp after all these years. Plus, he had work to do and not much time. Men lowered the caskets, shoveled earth. He shifted, stretched, and merged with…

The energy of Investigator Firinne. So earnest. Such a chip on her shoulder, the need to solve every crime, to prove all those naysayers wrong. The killer must be here, if only she could—

Bird wrenched away. It wasn’t easy. Firinne’s mind was strangely open, burning like a bonfire. He concentrated as the ceremony ended and people shook hands and shared condolences with the family. He got in line, sensing a tight ball of hurt. But he couldn’t isolate the source, not yet, just a little closer…

A warm palm encircled his own and the connection broke. Bird found himself shaking hands with Eddie’s father.

“I appreciate how hard you tried to save my son,” the father said. “Thank you.”

By the time Bird pulled himself away, Investigator Firinne twitched with anticipation.

“Anything?”

The nerve. He shook his head no, jaw tight. True, someone in the crowd was in pain, but that didn’t mean they were the killer.

“Not one thing?”

“Actually, I felt a little flash from you.”

Her eyes widened.

“Probably just because you put me up to it. The mind focuses the body, and all that. I’m sorry.”

“No. The saloon. The men are going there next to raise a few toasts. Maybe drinks will loosen things up.”

“I’m very tired.”

She eyed Adiah. “Your daughter seems well. I didn’t realize she and the boy were close.”

Bird glanced over. Adiah stood next to the younger Powers son, gentle Ben. The two had moved away from the adults and their heads almost touched in soft conversation. As the boy began to cry, she embraced him.

“Should I go say hello?” Firinne asked, not bothering to make the threat subtle.

Bird ground his teeth. “Fine. I’ll go to the tavern.”

---

Bird returned from the Delta Saloon no wiser for four hours and a whole dollar wasted on whiskey. It was late, and his house sat cloaked in darkness as he opened the front door.

“Dad, we need to talk.”

His eyes took a few seconds to find his daughter sitting in a rocking chair in a shadowed corner. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I want to start working at the shop after school. I want you to train me.”

He’d been trying to convince her for over a year. He should be happy. But something was wrong.

“What changed your mind?” He walked across the room, knelt, and took her hand in his.

She snatched it away. Her brow furrowed as she turned up the kerosene lamp on the table beside her. “Also, could I bring a friend? Maybe Ben could help, too.”

“Ben?”

“He’s worried. His family’s still in a lot of debt because of his mother’s medical bills, and now they also owe you for trying to help Eddie. Maybe Ben could work it off?”

Bird relaxed. “Oh, honey, that’s thoughtful. But Ben’s father probably needs his help in the livery right now.”

“But Ben needs training. Your training.”

Bird froze. Slowly, understanding fissured through his mind. “He has the Touch?”

“Please, he’s scared. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone—” She stopped, but Bird heard the unspoken word anyway: Again. He didn’t want to hurt anyone again.

“My God.”

“You have to promise not to tell.”

Like hell. “I will do no such thing, young lady.”

Her faced twisted. “You said if Eddie attacked me, I’d a right to defend myself. You said I wasn’t to blame. And neither is Ben.”

“What happened?

“It started with his mother.”

“Lord Almighty. He killed her, too?”

“What? No, of course not! He was keeping her alive. After the money ran out for her cancer treatments two years ago, he started healing her. He didn’t realize what he was doing—no one else in their family has the Touch, and he was only seven. He thought he was praying, like laying hands in church? Only his mother understood. She was grateful, at first.”

Adiah shook her head mournfully. “But the cancer kept coming back. Eventually she asked him to stop, made him promise. Eddie overheard.

“He got angry, said if God gave Ben the power to heal, it wasn’t his place to question it. If he refused to help her, Eddie said he’d kill him.”

Bird gaped. Ben must have felt so alone, so confused. And Eddie, well, Bird couldn’t blame him for wanting to hold onto his mother. He’d debated within himself why the Lord had given him talent, questioned whether he’d done enough with it.

“Ben kept healing her,” Adiah said, “but the cancer came back faster, and Eddie beat him worse each time. Finally, she died.

“It devastated him. But that was nothing compared to Eddie. Eddie disappeared inside himself, and this other, horrid thing came out. Ben ran, but Eddie caught up and started strangling him.

“Ben doesn’t remember the rest. He blacked out. When he woke, Eddie was half-dead. He feels awful, Dad. Guilty for his brother and his mother. But he’s also scared—of going to jail, of hurting someone else by mistake. And I’m…I’m afraid he might turn it on himself.”

Bird’s skin crawled. His heart protested. He reached for Adiah and, this time, she fell into his arms.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll help.”

---

Investigator Firinne came into the barbershop a few days later.

It was after school, and Adiah and Ben were in the back, straightening up. Bird had just finished a hot shave.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bird,” she said, then lowered her voice. “I wanted to check in. We never spoke about whether you sensed anything at the tavern.”

“The saloon?” He had plum forgot. “Oh, that. No, nothing there.”

“But elsewhere?”

Hellfire, he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

As he debated how to respond, Adiah and Ben came from the back and walked over to a rolltop desk where he’d shown them how to keep his books. Miss Firinne’s eyes lit with more questions.

He had to distract her. “Actually yes, I’ve been thinking about something else. Quite the surprising development.”

Her attention swiveled. “Yes?

It was just a suspicion. But maybe he could bluff his way through.

“The flash I felt from you during the funeral. Your emotions struck me so strongly, almost like you had your own talent.” He lowered his voice. “You have the Nose, don’t you?”

She stiffened, stepped back.

He smiled. “I imagine it helps you sniff out when people are lying, like the day you questioned me. You must have been testing how I felt about Eddie’s death, if I was guilty or suspected my daughter was. So, it stands reason, you know I’m innocent. And that she is, too.”

She flushed. “I –”

“We can keep this between us, but why the games? Why ask for my help if you have your own gifts?”

She thrust out her chest as if to deny it. Then she deflated, looking annoyed. “It’s not very reliable. I can smell if someone’s lying or upset, rarely more. Except with you. Must be all your healing, makes you a veritable bouquet.”

Her gaze wandered. “When did you take on the Powers boy? I’ve been meaning to talk to him again. There’s something…”

He worked to steady his pulse. Stick to the truth. She couldn’t detect a lie in the truth. “Oh, I needed some extra help. He’s a good boy, and he’s been through so much.”

He planned to take Ben’s training slow, considering the ordeal he’d suffered. When the shop closed, he’d start with breathing exercises. Then he’d teach them both to distinguish between healthy tissue and the spongy rot of illness. They both had blunt power; what they needed was technique.

Firinne’s nostrils flared. “You’re hiding something.”

Damnation. She was right; she’d figure it out eventually. And when she did, she’d be furious he’d tricked her. She’d traumatize the boy with more questions, maybe even imprison him. When the townsfolk learned the truth, things could get out of hand.

But perhaps there was another path. A way to use her talent, and his, to avoid that fate.

At the funeral, he’d read people’ thoughts and emotions; could it work in the opposite direction? She’d just confessed she could sense more from him than others, so maybe…

He gripped her arm. As he did, he released everything he felt toward the boy–anguish, admiration, sorrow, affection–along with mental images of what had happened.

She staggered as they hit her.

He let them sink in, then said, “Mr. Powers and his son need to heal. They’re all each other has left. Do you understand?”

Her mouth hung open. She stared.

“I’m going to watch over Ben, make sure he has the training he needs,” he said.

Slowly she whispered, “You’re sure it was self-defense?”

“Positive. I’ve healed him some. He was in a lot of pain—still is—but we have a connection now.”

She wavered.

“Please, Investigator Firinne. I’ll keep him safe, keep us all safe, if you’ll allow me.”

She nodded hesitantly.

“Wonderful.” He guided her to the exit.

“Wait.” Before he could stop her, she strode over to Ben and dropped to one knee. “Hello, Ben. Do you remember me? I’m Investigator Firinne.”

Ben’s eyes widened.

She smiled gently. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. You’ve been through a lot lately, and I want to be your friend. It’s my job to protect people, so if you have any more problems, don’t try to solve them alone. You go to Mr. Bird or me and we’ll help. Understand?”

Ben nodded uneasily.

Firinne squeezed the boy’s shoulder, then walked back to Bird.

“Now, don’t you think I’ve gone soft,” she muttered. “I’ll be checking in. Often. And if I’m not convinced…”

“Yes, I’d expect nothing less.” He tried to appear admonished. “We all thank you very much.”

She raised her chin. “Of course, you do. Good day, Mr. Bird.”

As she left the shop and sallied down the street, something inside him slowly relaxed. Behind him rang the music of the children’s voices and the swish of the broom. Closing time. Smiling, he shut the door. Then he locked it for good measure.

“Alright,” he said, turning to his new pupils. “Let’s begin.”

---

Host Commentary

Families. Those ties can make us, or break us, can’t they?  This story showcases so many different aspects of that particular double-edged sword.  Two boys who love their mother, both unwilling to let go, turning their pain outwards in anger and inwards in futility. Two widowers who cannot keep their loved ones safe: one impoverished by circumstance, the other, walking a narrow tightrope of trust, giving his skills to his wider community but knowing it could easily turn on him and the ones he loves most. And two daughters, given no option but to follow in their fathers’ footsteps, carrying secrets that could damn them.  Love and duty and the lit fuse of all those secrets…it makes me want to go and watch some Mike Leigh movies.  But what I like most about this story is the space it gives for the characters to find their way through their troubles – Bird worries that his daughter might be responsible, but doesn’t let it create misunderstanding. The inspector has the power to close the case and blame Bird or his daughter, but refuses the easy solution. Adiah fears her own magic, but knows she can’t avoid it forever.  And Ben, poor Ben, chooses to open up to Adiah and from that gets the chance to forgive himself and let go of the pain. All the characters get enough breathing room to find the truth for themselves, in their own time, and to come together stronger by the end of it.