There he is. Those pretty eyes, the curve of his lips that Gabe used to stare at when choir practice dragged on. The mouth he'd kissed more than once. Gabriel Fletcher, whole and safe and sound and looking just like he looked three months ago - or had it been four?

Gabe is alive. He's fine. He's slumming it in Maine. Caleb's relief drains away, leaving anger in it's place. It doesn't even build up, it's just there, flared up in his chest like a match tossed on gasoline.

"I can't fucking believe you," he says without taking his eyes off Gabe's, a minute shake of his head.