Tegwen drew in a steadying breath and eased the ten-foot-tall wrought iron fence open. It squeaked loudly, attesting to the few visitors that came by through the years. If the gate had been animate, it would have been friends with Tegwen, she who had greased its ancient hinges on more than one occasion.

"This never gets any easier," she whispered to herself.

Tegwen passed rows and rows of grassy plots, each with crosses for its headstone. In all the visits she made to that graveyard, she'd never once made an effort to learn any names on any of the other headstones. The last two rows, right where Tegwen was headed, had tombstones of all shapes and sizes, but none that were crosses. Down the first row and to the left . . . Tegwen struggled with her legs -- they never wanted to cooperate at that point in each of her visits.

At last, Tegwen stopped, her legs buckling beneath her. There she knelt, between two modest-sized graves. The plastic carnations on both Giffen and Beitiris' graves still looked like they were new, roughly two years after they had been placed there.

It was chilly and clear that evening with icy gusts; the type of night that made Tegwen think she might start seeing ghosts.

And here I am, kneeling between the graves of my parents. She shivered involuntarily, holding Fenton's jacket close to her chest and feeling a cold breeze toying with the hem of her short gown. Light from a nearby lantern reflected off the sequins on her dress, splattering a bit of cheer upon two dreary granite monuments. Tegwen slowly reached over, tracing the date of death on her mother's tombstone with her hand, trying to wipe the reflection of her sequins away. October 9, 1990.

"At least you can still be free," she whispered, watching the multicolored glints dance across the granite through watery eyes. "I, on the other hand . . ." Tegwen turned away when the heartache grew too fierce, her eyes clenched shut so tightly that her whole face ached.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. I came here for one reason . . . Slowly, in the dim light cast by the lone lantern in that corner of the cemetery, Tegwen searched through her backpack. She produced a small cardboard box, a relic that was her last purchase while her parents were still alive. Tegwen ran her index finger over the embossed logo. Gingerly, she lifted the frayed top flap and reached into the box, extracting a small bottle of cologne, half empty. It was an exquisite bottle, just barely suitable for the cologne it held.

With a crooked smile, she unscrewed the cap on the bottle of duCK1. This is for you, Fenton. May you be having a better life than I am. Slowly, she tipped it, pouring the remainder of the liquid into the grass just an inch to the right of her mother's grave. Tegwen's breath was shaky as she watched the last bit of cologne trickle out of its container, soaking the grass where it landed. She then set the empty bottle behind the carnations on Giffen's tombstone, feeling her fingertips burn as she released it.

Brusquely, Tegwen left the cemetery, trying to ignore her still burning fingers. She made a beeline for the Audubon Bay Bridge to finish her business that evening, so intent in her goal that she didn't notice the three fire trucks that whizzed by her, their sirens blaring.

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