The sky is dark when Denny finally makes it home. Her plan is simple: sneak in past the couch before her mother sees how battered she is, eat two sandwiches, shower, and sleep for most of Sunday.

She doesn't want her mother to worry. If there's anything she doesn't want, it's that. 

She also doesn't want her mother to ask if she's on drugs again. She's a grown woman. She can do stupid shit if she wants to. That includes eating things she did not know were drugs and then freaking out a little. 

Denny comes in through the side door and walks behind the couch so that her mother doesn't stop the Beverly Hillbillies rewatch long enough to see the state of her daughter. She just kind of goes straight for the bathroom to wash off the day's dirt and blood, and to clean and bandage her wounds. Her mother has trained her well; Denny doesn't try to lick all the tears in her flesh again. If it scars, that's alright. Scars are badass anyway, even if they're the kind that come from a former friend trying to kill you. 

When all is said and done-- when the sandwiches are eaten, when the mayo is wiped from the corner of her mouth, when the night has wound down enough that she can feel the exhaustion bleeding back into her bones-- she retreats to her room. Denny has every intention of going to sleep, but there are things she has to do first. She has to return those souls, since Tiff left them in her care. That's going to necessitate going out. She sits on the edge of her bed, trying to work up the energy to take care of it. 

Though she doesn't want to, she considers the envelope she shoved into her drawer on Thursday. She holds it in her hands and recalls what she read earlier. 

She doesn't want to go back to Tennessee. She said it to her father when she left last year. She said it to herself in the back of her head a thousand times over the past twelve moths. When it finally set in that it was real, that all of that really happened, she realized there was nothing left for her there anyway. What is there for someone in a state where their friend tried to kill them and their father thinks they're a monster? Tennessee's only saving grace is Emira Franco-- and Denny has been pointedly ignoring her texts because she doesn't want things to get weird. 

There's no life left for her in Tennessee. Why go back at all?  

But... She has to face it sometime, doesn't she? 

Her phone rings. Denny sighs, sets the envelope on her plastic bag full of glass bottles of souls, and answers. She doesn't have to look at the contact name or the phone number she has had memorized for years to know that it's Jessie. 

"Hey," she says, without much thinking. 

"Hey, Den." Jessie sounds just as drained as Denny feels. "Did you... fix it?" 

"Well, that's an opening. But, yeah, I have." She looks over at the brown plastic bag on the bed next to her. "I have the way to fix it, at least. I was planning on finishing up in a minute. Is Laura home yet?" 

"Yeah, we're home. There wasn't much they could do for her, they just said to keep her hydrated and told us to come back in the morning." 

"What the fuck does that mean?" 

Jessie sighs. "I have no clue."

"Huh. Well... I have to go throw glass at some people's windows. I'll be at your aunt's to pick you up... soon. Sometime soon. I promise." 

Denny hangs up before she can make things weirder. She does just what she said she would. Wiping the tiredness from her eyes, she gathers up everything she discarded on her bed and grabs a hoodie she knows she isn't going to wear. She takes her keys, her half-eaten granola bar, and, as she realizes when she tosses it onto the passenger seat, the envelope. It mocks her while she drives around town, throwing glass to release and diffuse the souls. (It worked for Tiff. It should work here. God, she hopes it does.) 

The last house on the list is Laura's. Denny knows that Jessie is still there; she can see her waiting on the front steps. When all is said and done-- when the glass is broken, the soul is diffused through the window, and the night is devoid of charm and mystery and exists primarily in the liminal-- Denny puts her fists in her pockets and walks up to the front door.

Jessie sits with one leg crossed over the other, saxophone-shaped earrings dangling from her ears. The streetlamps and the glow from her phone have the same effect: lights on Jessie, star of the show. 

Trying not to stare, Denny is the one to break the silence. "Hey."

It's simple; Jessie says the same thing, barely looking up from her phone, barely pausing in chewing her lip. "Hey." 

"I fixed it." 

"Yeah, I saw you throwing glass at Laura's window. Is she gonna be okay?"

"I sure hope so. It worked with Tiff and uh-- someone else." Denny shrugs. "And it's not a crime, to throw glass at someone's window." 

"It definitely is."

"Agree to disagree."

Jessie, worried, looks around Denny to the window. "I hope it works." 

"She'll be okay," Denny assures her, firm once more. 

Jessie pauses, looks around, stops bobbing her foot. The streetlights reflect yellow on the lenses of her glasses. "Will you give me a ride home? I was going to ask Cory, but... I want to spend time with you." 

"Always." As if there were any question. 

When they're in the car and the air is only just beginning to flow through the vents, Jessie shifts in her seat to pull the hoodie and envelope out from underneath her. She looks down at the ripped back, then flips it over, narrowing her eyes at it. "Denny, what is this? Why is this in here?" 

Denny tries to take it gently from her hands. "Don't-- Don't look at that. It's nothing to worry about." 

"I mean, it sure looks like something to worry about. What is it? Some-- It looks like legal bullshit." 

Denny manages to take it from her hand and shoves it into the glove compartment. In the process, she accidentally shows what's in there among the registration, manuals, and old wrappers: a composition notebook and a thick manila envelope bursting with loose paper and more, smaller envelopes. Name and names, death letters and death letters-- she had almost forgotten they were there. Before Jessie can ask anything, Denny closes the glove compartment and returns both hands to the wheel.

She knows what comes next. Questions and questions, answer and answers. Well, Denny can tell her own story now-- what of it that she's comfortable with talking about, anyway. 

Jessie turns on the light in the ceiling between them and opens the glove compartment again, frowning. "Denny. What is this stuff?" 

"It's... fairly new? It hasn't always been there. I don't know how to explain." 

"Maybe you should, because it looks like a manila envelope with all your friends and family's names in it. Shit, you've even got Robin's name in here. They're not even in town! What the hell is this?" 

This is fine. She can explain. She definitely isn't freaking out and knows how to talk like a normal person. "So-- ignore the death letters for a moment." 

"I'm sorry, the what?" 

"Just ignore them. For a moment." She taps her hands on the wheel and keeps her eyes on the road, trying to still her heart while it threatens to jump out of her throat and take off running. "Jessie, I have to go back to Tennessee. It's for a reason that I don't know if I can explain yet-- it's hard to admit and I... don't want to worry anyone with it, I guess. It's just a trial. It's nothing big--" 

"Did you get arrested?" 

"Kind of? Yes? But it's not my trial. I'm testifying. It's-- it's complicated, and the only person who really knows is my dad, and... And I have to go. I don't want to, but I have to." 

"You have to go back to Tennessee?" Jessie frowns. "When? For how long?" 

She takes a breath, taps the wheel, and considers not saying anything. That isn't an option anymore. "Not long, I guess. I hope. I just want it to be over. It doesn't make sense to me, but it has to be done. And you know me. I know the way to Tennessee and back like the back of my hand. I could get there without a map, even." 

"Bring a map," Jessie sighs. They have had this conversation before. "You're going to get lost." 

"I'm not going to get lost." 

"You'd better not!"

Jessie looks out the window to the street passing by, then back through the windshield. Denny cloks it out of the corner of her eye for a moment, that Jessie is thinking something over. 

"And the death letters?" she asks, after a long minute of Brandon Flowers crooning over the radio about driving down streets or something. (Denny doesn't know.) "What's that about? These letters in the glove compartment? I saw my name on one of them-- what are they?" 

"Uh-- good question. Great question, even. I don't... I don't know how to answer that without things getting weird and kinda heavy, so I don't know--" 

"Denny." Jessie's voice is firm. "Come on. How long have we known each other?"

"Our whole lives?" 

"Exactly. Just tell me."

"They're letters I wrote in case I die," she mutters, not looking over. She keeps her eyes on the road. 

"What was that?" 

"A letter. I wrote letters. They're letters I wrote in case I die." Denny tries not to close her eyes (she is driving, after all). "You remember when I broke up with Nadine and I didn't want to talk about it and I just kinda spent a lot of time in the woods? It's like that." She pauses, knowing she should elaborate, but not sure how. "There are things that are hard to talk about-- things I don't know how to talk about-- and I don't want to worry anyone with it until after I'm gone."

Jessie doesn't seem to know what to say to that. She furrows her brows and turns her head toward Denny, hands still on the manila envelope in her lap. 

That's fine. Denny keeps talking. The dam has begun to crack and, for once, she isn't biting her tongue. "But I don't know if I want to wait until I'm dead to tell people how I feel, especially because I'm probably never going to die. I mean, it's not like I have a deathwish-- I'm just the guy who throws myself in front of the monsters so nobody else gets hurt and, no matter how many times I do that, I never actually die. And-- and I know this is a horrible thing to say when all of this is so weird already-- Jessie, I don't want things to change. I don't want things to get worse, and I don't want you to look at me like I'm..." She chooses her words like grains of salt. "Like I'm different than I always have been. Or like I'm dangerous. Or... I don't know." 

Jessie hesitates. Serious for once in her life, she considers her words carefully. "Things aren't going to change if you tell me things. I know you're not... good at feelings shit. When it comes to your own feelings, I mean. I've known that about you for forever. I don't think it would change much of anything for you to open up without stammering around things you think are secrets but really aren't." 

"Well, I don't know what that's supposed to mean." 

"It means you should tell me things. You're my best friend. Things aren't going to change. It's not something that's up for debate." 

Denny knows there are things she can't say, things that she can't tell her-- about the werewolf thing, about the breadth of the Joey thing, about what really happened when Denny almost died in that hole in November-- but she can tell her this.

"I really care about you," she blurts. "Like, a lot. A lot. Through all the things I've done, I can't stop thinking about you and whether or not you're safe and I don't want to die before I get to say that." 

After a moment, Jessie sighs. "You know what?" 

"What?" 

"Don't take me home. Let's go out." 

After a moment of hesitation, she asks, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Jessie decides. "Yeah, I am. It's been a long day, and you still owe me those drinks, and this is-- this is the kind of conversation I definitely want to have with something in my system. I plan to capitalize-- and I plan to hear more." 

Denny nods. It's as good a plan as any.