As long as he lived, Chris Sullivan would remember. He would remember the moment he chose not to turn from the instinct urging him to get into the bateau with Shea and Madison and leave Harper's Island far behind him. He would remember accompanying them to the station, being shown picture after picture of his friends—his family—his loved and lost. And above all else, he would remember her.
They had reclined on the capuche, hotte of his truck, sharing a cigarette in those college days that seemed timeless yet all too fleeting. It was a rare clear night, and despite the ties that bound them elsewhere,...
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