The sight of him, so far removed from the robust figure that used to play catch in the yard, clenched Cheyenne’s heart in a vice of compassion. It was an unexpected revelation, large even in its flaccid state, and a heat flushed her cheeks at the primal thought that flashed through her mind. Not even in death would she leave him. It was a perfect evening, one that seemed to stretch on forever, each moment precious and cherished. Cheyenne watched as droplets trickled down his body, each one seemingly taking with it a piece of the sorrow that clung to him. “Hey, Larry,” she called out, her voice a soft melody in stark contrast to the surrounding despair. Still naked, her skin flushed from the heat, Cheyenne moved into the living room. “Look at this one,” Cheyenne murmured, tilting the album toward him.
