For years, Radar has done everything he can to make himself reliable, dependable, the legs paddling furiously under the surface while the swan glides with seemingly effortless grace above. Do that for long enough, and people can't imagine what it'd be like if you were gone. You can't imagine it. If Radar can't even conceive of Edgar running the whole ranch -- the guy who's been John's stablehand for ages -- there's no way he can think, well, maybe another farmer could take over. Maybe I can just stay downtown and let it be. Town Hall's got a whole team that can smooth over the empty spaces he leaves behind. Out here, there's -- there's hardly anybody, and a bomb crater where John used to be, and a ridiculous childlike urge that maybe if he fixes it well enough, maybe -- maybe --

What he wants most of all is to do right by John. And if that means doing a whole lot of individual things he doesn't want to do... well.

(He wants to be on a farm even more familiar than this one. He wants the chance to feel like his own age and not somebody ten years older. He wants to be younger still, tucked in with his teddy bear and a kiss on the forehead, even though he's spent so many years wanting the exact opposite. How does anybody ever survive the heartbreak of growing up?)

"I'm sorry," he gasps reflexively against Fever's shoulder. At least he's got this: a friend holding him with all her steadiness brought to bear, reminding him that one loss doesn't mean the whole world has ended. Even if it feels like it, a little. And even if he can't stop apologizing for breaking down so badly. "I'm sorry."