DYER The sharp scrape of the razor against my jaw echoes too loudly in the silent bathroom. Each stroke feels like peeling away a layer of the man I have become, pathetic, unhinged, drowning in grief. The foam gathers at the edges of the sink in pale clumps, and I watch them swirl into the drain like pieces of me slipping away.

My hand trembles slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion. From holding myself together for too long.

By the time the last strand of beard falls, exposing the skin ...