I'm leaving. I'm packing a suitcase, I've put gas in my car, and I want to go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere that's not here. I can't take another hour of staring at his eyeless face through the glass door. I'm getting the hell outta here. Sayonara, Stone River.
I've wanted to take a vacation for a while now. Maybe I should go to San Francisco, or Vegas, or New York City. Somewhere crowded, where I can hide myself amongst the mundane, amongst the Ignored. Somewhere that doesn't have many trees or forests.
John Leon is going on holiday.