Sometimes, in the dead
of night, he'd wake suffocating. The still, still air pressed down
on him, crushing his chest, every molecule of air a drop of molasses
crawling down his windpipe. He'd wake, and white bandages and red
blood lingered before his fear-dark eyes.
Nothing could erase the image of black Death disguised as white light.
Those nights he'd lay frozen, trying to breathe; tell himself this was the dream—the nightmare—and someday he would awake to Daniel's breath and Daniel's heartbeat and Daniel's heat and the air flowing easy in their lungs. And sometimes in the dead of night with the still, still air pressing down and down and down on his chest, the lie would help.