Hank's dreams came as memories disfigured by fears. Docile moments of sandcastles disrupted by the fortress bursting with snakes. Confused, Hank looked to his father, but instead, Bella faced him: eyes vacant and skin a strange blue. She clutched her throat as snakes erupted from her mouth. Screaming rang in his ears as he searched for the source before realizing the cries came from him. His dad and Peter were charging towards them, but every step seemed to take them further away.

Meanwhile, Elise looked on, not just in passive acceptance, but appearing delighted by the display. In a twist of a sea-salted breeze, he was in the garage. His hands were still sandy from the seaside castle but had grown to the worn hands of an adult. The slick, cold metal of the cream Consul confused his senses, as did his father, bent beneath the hood with him. He had aged like Peter, tinkering as though he hadn't been in a pine box for 20-years.

"Neglect isn't her fault." His father's voice was calm, but Hank's eyes widened as a lone drop of red fell to the engine from Henry Jr.'s temple. Hank's mind screamed not to look up from the drip, not to look at his father's face one last time, but he couldn't stop them.

"You can fix this," his father nodded as their eyes met, but the moment stole the words. All Hank saw was the trickle turn to a stream and then a river of blood from his temple.

Hank was out of bed before he was awake. His body could no longer hold to the constraints of sleep. His hands nervously smoothed the dark brown curtains of wiry hair on either side of his face. He found himself in the garage, staring at the photos pinned to the workbench. His father's serene smile fixated him, and his voice clouded his mind.

Hank's eyes fell on the garage sign, the last present from his father. A Christmas gift of a raw steel sign with a fictitious Carroll's Garage logo cutout. Christmas Day that year had been cold, never rising out of the '20s. By the time the evening crawled over the house, the temperature had dropped to the teens, and the cold froze the breath of the day's breeze. Hank recalled the chill through his slippers; it made his ankles ache as they hung the sign. Then the memory clicked like the final lock pin; they had taken a picture of their work from across the garage.

Hank was shuffling through the box of loose photos at the sideboard, the orphans that never found a home in an album after the tragedy. There it was, the sign hanging just as it was to the day, but that was not Hank's focus. It was the foreground that held his gaze, the cream Consul that sat before the sign. His eyes searched for what his mind was trying to coax him to see, some form of proof of something still out of reach.

"Couldn't sleep?" Her voice shattered his thoughts and tensed his muscles.

"Forgot to pull out the cribbage board." The ease of his excuse disturbed him.

"Could've waited until morning," she moved closer. Hank tucked the picture behind the lid of the box, protecting it from her view. "Nighttime is for nostalgia. Dreams are like living memories." A whimsical grin settled on her face, but Hank could sense it was fake.

"Then what are nightmares?" The words slipped out with such reckless speed that he couldn't catch them.

"They are the shadows that prove the light. You should be used to them by now." Her lyrical voice was pleasant, sweet even, but her words were baiting. "Is this young Hank?" She plucked a photo of him from his graduation, allowing a single bell peal of a laugh to follow. "Some people you don't imagine were ever young, but here we have proof."

"Why are you up?" His voice came as placid as ever.

"Going to the symphony. Would you like to join?" She extended a hand expectantly. He tucked the box back to the sideboard and pulled out the cribbage board while discretely tucking the garage photo in his back pocket. Then, as expected, he took her hand.

"There's no symphony," he murmured as she swept him away. They settled into the garden swing with the lantern of the moon illuminating the evening. "What are we..." A single raise of her delicate hand quieted him.

In their silence, the melody of the crickets and grasshoppers overwhelmed their ears. The earthy smell of the trees preparing for winter, mixing with the sweet scent of the shed leaves taking their final breaths of life before succumbing to decay surrounded them. The scent mingled with the distant smells of the first fireplace fires of the year set a melancholy scene that suited Hank. It was a true masterpiece.

The bite of the air chased away the lingering cobwebs of Hank's nightmares but gnawed deeper into Josie's tiny frame. She jerked when he swung a paw-like hand at her lower legs, but his reach was too encompassing. He pulled her feet to his side as she eagerly tucked them into him for warmth. A grateful smile tipped her lips as she leaned her entire body into him like an eager moth. He dangled an arm over her with an awkward tense to his muscles but still encasing her in his warmth as they continued to enjoy the nocturnal melody.

As Josie grew heavy with sleep, Hank felt her melt deeper into him. He told himself he was kind to let her sleep, but really, he was not ready to return to his bed. He conceded when a deep shiver ran through her.

"Josie," he murmured in a gentle whisper. A childlike serenity filled her face, causing loneliness to crack through his body like lightning.

Softly, he lifted her in his arms. She slipped into his cradle like the doll of a child, but he was the toy. He was the puppet of many, and at that moment, he was the puppet of Josie. It was the encompassing and inescapable power women had over him.

"Hank," she spoke in the distance of sleep, "we're connected."

It felt like stealing in her state of drowsy honesty to prod, but Hank couldn't resist. "Connected?" His tone dripped with the plea for relief from the clouds that rolled in behind her arrival, but she succumbed to her sleep. The warmth of the bed had lulled her too far from his reach.