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it. He'd let the booze turn him into someone he'd never choose to be, someone he never wanted to be again.

    But when Randall Bolton started something, he finished it, whether it was building a treehouse for the son that he hoped to have someday or sitting through an entire wedding for somebody he didn't know because he'd gone to the wrong church.

    And if he
did
manage to protect his ex-wife with his chainsaw, maybe he'd regain some of his dignity. He loved his chainsaw. Loved being a lumberjack, even if other people liked to sing that cross-dressing song by those British assholes. Loved the sound of falling trees smashing to the ground. Loved the outdoors. Even loved the word "lumberjack," despite the fact that a couple of his buddies insisted on being called "arborists."

    But the day before yesterday, he'd been humiliated. Oh, sure, he could see where it would be funny to the other lumberjacks--he would've been laughing his ass off if it happened to somebody else--but his face burned red just thinking about it. He knew people thought he'd fallen off the wagon, but he hadn't touched a drop in almost a hundred days. And you know, it used to be a struggle--that whole one-day-at-a-time thing--but now it felt
good
to be sober.

    The accident wasn't his fault. Really. He hadn't done anything stupid or careless. He'd been happily chainsawing away, and as the tree started to wobble a squirrel was dislodged from the branches, landing on his hard hat and then scampering down his back. He hadn't shrieked like a girl or anything, but
anybody
would yelp if a goddamn squirrel dropped on their head from thirty feet. Randall flinched, twisted around, and his chainsaw blade hit the back of his leg.

    He couldn't hear his buddies laughing over the chainsaw motor, but oh, they were in hysterics. Blood was gushing from his shredded flesh and they were having themselves a great big ol' guffaw. Again, he would've laughed too...but still,
fuck
those guys.

    He refused to let them drive him to the hospital. He'd drive there his goddamn self. He only needed one good leg to drive, so those giggling bastards could burn in hell for all he cared.

    Of course, he'd started to get dizzy as he drove, and realized that because of his stubbornness he was bleeding all over his own truck instead of somebody else's. But he didn't pull over. He drove all the way to the hospital (while Jack and Frank drove behind him, presumably to make sure he didn't pass out at the wheel) and checked himself in.

    Randall desperately wanted to make peace with his chainsaw.

    Putting it through the head of a dracula would do just fine.

    He picked up his pace as he walked out of that big room where they made you wait. A nurse covered in blood was having a panic attack while a doctor shook her. Randall didn't like seeing that kind of shit--you didn't put your hand on a woman like that even if she
was
freaking out--but he had to focus. Ignore the chaos. Think only of Jenny and his chainsaw.

    He exited the hospital, half-expecting somebody to say "Hey! That gown is hospital property!" He'd grabbed his shoes on his way out of his room and put them on during the elevator ride down, but hadn't taken the time to grab his pants. He wished he had them. His chainsaw-the-monster redemption would be a lot better if his ass wasn't hanging out.

    Unfortunately, he hadn't parked close. By the time he'd driven to the hospital, woozy from blood loss, he'd misjudged the distance to the building by over a hundred yards. He had a vague recollection of Jack and Frank helping him get into the ER, but couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd left his Dodge. The lot was full, and apparently every other driver in the county owned a red pick-up. He weaved through the rows, wishing he had one of those little clicky-things he could press to make his horn honk.

    When he finally caught sight of his Dodge, he picked up the pace even more, but that seemed to pull at his stitches and he slowed his