I keep my hand on his leg while he drives up the hill to our house on the cliff. The contentment that fills me each time we pull into the driveway will never get old.
We’re strolling up the gravel path toward the steps when Sam sharply drags me back.
“What?” I look at Sam and find fury on his face. I turn to the house.
Costa is sitting on the porch under the spotlight, his back against Sam’s door.
Sam’s body lifts from the ground, and with surprising speed, hefliesthe twenty feet it takes to reach Costa. In an instant, he lifts Costa under the arms so that they are both off the porch. Sam floats them back a few feet and then rams Costa against the door. And then, he does it again.
“Sam, no!” I scream, running to them.
But Sam pounds Costa into the old door one more time. Under his strength, it splinters down the middle, and they fall through the threshold to the floor of Sam’s apartment. When I reach them, Sam has his hands positioned to snap Costa’s neck.
“Don’t do this. There’s no point.” I’m trying to control my panic. I might be new to this, but what Sam is doing seems to fall outside the boundaries of death tripping. “There’s no point!” I say again.
“He’ll be gone for a while. That’s a good point.”
I look at Costa, who is barely resisting Sam’s aggression. He is clearly exhausted and broken.
“Let him go. For me.”
Costa speaks softly, “Please don’t kill me. I’ve been sober from death tripping since that night. Please.”
“Fuck you.” Sam is seething.
Then, Costa says something that makes even Sam’s violent impulse break apart, “We might be able to surface Toby.”
