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“Nick.”
He opened his eyes.
Darkness. All shadows, all smoke, holding him down, grip strong as he fought as hard as he could, legs kicking, hands slapping against flesh.
“Nick.”
He stopped. He inhaled. He exhaled.
“There. Good, Nick. You’re all right. I’m here. Breathe, kid. In. In. Good. Hold. One. Two. Three. And out. One. Two. Three. Again.”
He did. Again and again and again.
When he came back to himself, throat raw, skin slick with sweat as he panted, focus returned. He was in his room. In his bed. It was dark out, the light from the streetlamps on the sidewalk below filtering in through his window. Blankets tangled around his legs. Hot and cold, all at the same time.
“That was a bad one. You all right?”
He jumped, making a strangled noise as he looked over. His mother sat next to him on his bed. She wore a loose old shirt. Sleep shorts. Her hair was swept back off her forehead.
“Yeah,” he croaked out. “I don’t… nightmare.”
“Thought so.” She ran her fingers over his arm, nails scraping against his skin. “Want to tell me about it?”
He didn’t. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell her anything. It wasn’t real.
His brow creased. That felt like an untruth.
Right?
He said, “You died.” Yes. No. Split, right down the middle, a clear division. It was Before, and then it was After, and she was in both places at once, on either side of the line, and it wasn’t possible. “Youdied,” he said again, and began to shake.
She smiled, a hint of teeth behind her lips. “Of course I didn’t. I’m right here. I’ve always been here.” She leaned over him, herface inches from his own as her hand moved up his arm to his shoulder, his neck, stopping on his forehead. His skin crawled. He didn’t want this. He didn’t wanther.When she spoke again, it was barely a whisper, her breath hot against his face. “I’m not going anywhere,Nick.You can count on that.”
Then her hand moved to his forehead, and he felt a faint pulse wash over him, insistent, tendrils reaching, reaching, turning truth and clarity into nothingness.
Everything was fine.
He woke up the next morning and blinked up at the ceiling. He felt loose. Relaxed. He yawned, jaw cracking, before turning his face into his pillow. A good night’s sleep. He hadn’t had one of those in a while.
A voice shouted from somewhere below him. “Nick! Get your butt out of bed. Breakfast!”
He could smell it. French toast with vanilla and cinnamon. Bacon, fried to a blackened crisp. He jumped out of bed like it was Christmas morning. Wide awake, he pulled on a discarded shirt and hurried toward the door, throwing it open. Music, from downstairs. The King. Only fools rushed in. He laughed. Her favorite.
He moved down the hallway, right hand trailing on the wall. He thought, if he really wanted to, he could fly. He could rise from the floor and fly. The stairs creaked as he thundered down them, and there, in the back of his mind, another thought:Before. After. Before. After. After… what?
Nothing,a voice replied.There was no Before. There was no After. Everything is fine.
“Looks like someone’s finally up,” Dad said as Nick came into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter near the sink, wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Ankle socks, a small hole in one of the toes. Mom was at the stove, pans sizzling, snapping. Next to the stove, a plate stacked high with Frenchtoast, more than they could possibly eat in one sitting. Nick would eat all of it.
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes alight. “Hey, kid. Thought we were gonna have to drag you out of bed.” She winked at him, and Nick thought about lighthouses against rough seas.
“Nope,” Nick said. “Smelled breakfast. Didn’t want to miss it. French toast is ass when you have to reheat it.”
Mom laughed, and Nick relished the sound. “It is, isn’t it? There’s a little peanut butter left. Should be enough for your French toast. I’ll go to the store later to stock up.”
Nick grinned at her. Grocery stores on Sundays. Routine. Normal. “Sounds good. Think fast.” He punched Dad playfully on his bicep. Dad winced, but it was just for show.
Mom tapped her cheek, and ever the dutiful son, he kissed her with a loud smack. “Looks good,” he said, peering over her shoulder at the bacon on the stovetop.
