It is, frankly, the best bath he'd ever had. Mike sure as hell knew what he was doing when he drew it for him. And he lazes, and he luxuriates, and he wallows in the bath and the fact that he's home. Oh, thank God he's finally home.

He turns himself into a prune, then wraps himself blissfully up in the biggest, fluffiest towel in existence and sits on the toilet for a bit. Spends a bit of time contemplating the beard he'd grown in the mirror now that he has access to a razor. Eventually ends up just tidying it up and shaving his neck. Tilts his head at all angles and winds up actually kind of...pleased with it. Finds a pair of loose jeans and that same sweater with yellow ducks across the front, and walks out of the bathroom feeling whole again.

Still one more thing he has to do to feel right again.

Mike had gone and taken the dog on a long walk. That's good, even if the chickens are still poking around. They seem to be quite glad he was home, too. He just has to be careful of them, after he steals a few pats.

He'd put the razor in his pocket, all folded up, when he finished with it. Now he's gone searching cabinets, looking for his old matches. Back from when he used to smoke. Maybe he'll take it up again, he's not sure. Something to consider. He grabs a small dish to use as an ashtray, too. Opens the window a crack.

Last, but not least, he rummages through the bags full of his things he hasn't put away yet, finally surfacing with the journal Mike had given him. He looks at it. Then sits at the little folding table and spreads it all out in front of him.

He'd used the journal. Quite a bit, sometimes. He opens it up now; flips through it. Snapshots of frustration and despair and anger. Sometimes a glimpse of good, something unexpectedly happy. Something funny. But much more than that, the pages bleed pain. Pain and depression and the feeling of being trapped. Nothing he wants to relive. Nothing he wants to read again. No one he wants to be again.

He flips back to the first page. Takes the razor, and cuts. Straight, careful cut, right down the edge of the page at the spine. Puts it aside. Does it again, excising pages, excising nearly a month of his life. In the end, he sits with a quarter-inch thick pile of pages in front of him. Nothing but a burden. Nothing he wants to carry around with him. He runs his thumb along the cut edges in the book and closes it. It's as neat as he can get it, very little evidence left that the pages were ever there. It shuts funny now, but, well, what can you do?

He takes the first page. Lights the first match. And turns it into ashes.

And feels free.