The nights after Tom Hanson's father had died were the most restless of his life. Insomnia took a toll on his looks, creating large purple circles under his grief stricken eyes. He began to bottle up his emotions, leading people to believe that everything was okay and he was going to get through this. He was sixteen and had a suffering mother to take care of – he had to believe that somehow he would get past this horrible twist of fate. In the daytime when he felt scrutinized by everyone from his mother to the overly concerned bus driver, all he could do was emotionally shut down and lead everyone to believe that everything was fine, everything would be okay.

Tom never told anybody about the nights. Not the psychiatrist, his mother, his best friend. The nights where he'd pace around his room, toss and turn in his bed, attempt sleep. The little sleep he did get only allowed him to wake in a cold, feverish sweat. A recurring dream would haunt him when he allowed himself to succumb to rest.

It was summer and the sun shone down warmly on the bright blue painted swing-set. Back and forth, a little boy of five years old swung into the sky and back into his father's familiar hands. The little boy wanted to reach as high as the sun, but always counted on being caught. He laughed and giggled as the wind rushed over his tiny body and he pumped his little legs as hard as he could to reach higher.

With all his might, the boy pushed fast against his father's grip and soared into the sky. When he floated back down, he gripped the cold, metal chains as he realized that his father had somehow vanished into thin air.

The scream always echoed in Tom's head the morning after.