She’s gone inside, mentally exhausted. He sits outside, smoking the last of his cigar.

The taste of the Nicaraguan leaf swirls around the inside of his mouth as he stares up into the sky. He exhales, and the smoke hangs in the still night air, illuminated for a while by the porch light. If he squints, he can make out a star, shining dimly, but still shining. He closes his eyes tightly, then opens them, but things aren’t any clearer.

Across the world, at that very moment, there are people hurting, but he can only think of one person and her hurt. A hurt that he cannot fathom, but he has a front row seat to. He can only do so much, but there is so much he can’t do. And that is the worst feeling.

To want to help, but not being able to; is there no sadder circumstance?

He leans forward, puts out his cigar, takes the last sip of his bourbon, and heads inside.