Tommy was sweating and the air seemed too wet to pass through his airways, it seemed to get stuck and suck away what little oxygen remained. His hands were cold despite the hot sweat running down his neck in rivers and he felt something slip out from between his hands. There was no sound as it hit the ground. Everything around him felt gelatinous, like he'd gotten stuck in something that just suspended him and the lost object. What could it have been?

The shovel. He suddenly knew with absolute certainty that he'd dropped his shovel. He picked it back up without even looking to confirm it, there was no point in looking. It was too dark, and he'd picked it up so many times his muscles knew where to guide him. His muscles were working fine then, it was his mind that couldn't remember anything. It was hovering out of grasp above him in the mud below the grass somewhere in France. Stuck then, just like his body was. Where were they? He couldn't be sure, and he knew that if he'd been given a map, it would have made no difference to him at all. Nothing mattered and at the same time everything did. And there was something or someone hammering inside his head. Tommy pressed a stiff and muddy hand to his right temple. What was that fucking hammering?

'Tommy', a whisper behind him. Wasn't he alone? He thought he was alone.

'Tommy', the same voice, disembodied and unrecognizable. Maybe it was more than one voice. It was so hard to tell over all that god-awful hammering. Slowly, he realized the hammering wasn't in his head at all, there were vibrations coming from all around, wrapping him in something that was equally terrifying and fascinating. Like the flame dancing on top of a candle, impossible to draw your hand away from it even when it burned into your skin.

Tock, tock, tock. Silence. Tock, tock, tock.

There it was again. Chipping away at his sanity, day after day. Or had the days stopped passing? It felt like a moment removed from time itself, stretching out like glue or like his mother's long hair when it had gotten stuck in his woolen Sunday coat. You pull at it and it keeps on sliding out until it stretches and stretches. Annoying when you try to keep track of it but when you lose it, it's all that holds you together. Presence and absence equal parts poison and antidote.

A hand gripped his shoulder now and Tommy turned around. Two eyes were staring at him, wide and wild, the white around the iris and pupil floating towards him from the shadows. He saw his own reflection in the pupils of the man then, his pale white face floating in the darkness just like the eyes. They were in it together, he thought, oddly comforted by the thought.

'Tommy?'

'Danny!', he finally saw the eyes for what they were, the eyes of his friend, the eyes of his comrade, his countryman. Not a foe, just a friend.

'Let's switch', the voice whispered, and Tommy felt a cold body pushing past him. It was ice-cold, freezing his chest just as his back collided with more of the wet mud. Why was Danny so cold?

'What's wrong with you, Danny boy?', Tommy finally managed to move his lips, the words feeling foreign. Not a language really and suddenly he wondered if he'd really said them out loud or if they were just colliding with the insides of his skull until he thought he heard them.

'I'm dead, Tommy. Just your ghost now', Danny whispered. Or maybe he didn't whisper and there was just a connection between them then, something that allowed them to understand what was happening without relying on words that would never be adequate to describe what they were experiencing as they listened to the hammering around them.

Tock, tock, tock. Silence. Tock, tock, tock…tock.

The pace was picking up, coming closer. Tommy dropped the shovel again, what use was there in digging, he'd need his hands for his weapon in a few moments he thought. But then he felt something warm on his face and froze. Blood? No, it wasn't wet. It was dry, too dry to belong in a tunnel deep underneath the foreign French soil, so far away from the dirt of Birmingham.

Tommy inhaled, realizing there was air streaming into his lungs again and somehow it was drowning out the sound of the hammering. Everything was fading and there was still something warm on his face. He moved his right hand up, feeling his cold fingers press against his forehead but there was nothing there. It was warm but it had no shape and Tommy couldn't understand what it was until finally his eyes opened. They had been glued shut by sleep and it hurt to open them, felt so wrong but once they were open, he knew what had been on his face.

It was just the sun coming through the window. A single ray of sunshine that against all odds was finding its way between the clouds and the smoke that were the only sky Birmingham seemed to know. As soon as he recognized what it was, the sun ray disappeared, and Tommy groaned. The hammering was in his head now. Just a headache, but nonetheless there and reminding him of the nightmare. Fixing his eyes on his clock he noted the time. It was not quite 6 in the morning yet and Tommy sighed a sigh of relief then. Finally, spring was really here and not just on the calendar; the sun would win the fight against his dreams more often now. If the Birmingham weather and the pollution didn't get in the way and those were odds Tommy wasn't willing to think about right, then. Groaning one last time, Tommy sat up. There was no point to staying in bed. He needed to move, let his muscles take over once again and he knew where this would be possible.

When Tommy arrived in Atlas' box, he noticed that fog was still hanging over the Cut. The puddles in the boatyard were deep, a reminder of the thunderstorm last night. The horse seemed to have made it through the night better than he had and Tommy began mucking out the stable. There wasn't much to be done other than filling the water trough now and grabbing some fresh hay. As he made his way from the storage room back into the box Tommy froze.

There she was again, or had he actually lost his mind now? No, Evelyn Calman was definitely standing there, with her back towards him and pressing Atlas' giant head into her small frame. She was whispering something, but he couldn't make out what it was.

'Are you following me?', it came out sounding almost aggressive and she spun around. Her eyes wide and her lips forming a perfect circle, but no sound was coming out. It was clear she hadn't known that he was there and yet, twice in twelve hours seemed like too much of a coincidence.

'What are you doing here, Tommy?', she asked him when her breathing had calmed down and he just raised an eyebrow, throwing the question back at her silently. Equally silent now, Evelyn lifted her finger to her right temple and slowly tapped against it once. He noticed the rings under her eyes then.

'Demons', she finally elaborated. 'You?'

Tommy nodded, whether he was nodding to tell her he understood or to tell her his reasons for being there were the same, he wasn't sure.

'France?', Evelyn asked it without looking at him, she had turned back to the horse and was stroking its neck, standing on her toes as she did so. Her small frame made the already massive horse appear even larger.

Tommy nodded, then cleared his throat, realizing she couldn't see him.

'France', he confirmed, his voice losing all its timbre - the voice of a dead man standing. 'You?'

'The ones from this morning were there before France, just more ammunition now', Evelyn still didn't turn around to him and he was grateful then. It was almost like they hadn't spoken, like the confessions had escaped their lips without their acknowledgment.

Tommy walked to stand next to her then, reaching out to pet the horse but Evelyn ducked underneath his arm and before he could move any further her head was pressed into his chest. Slowly, almost like he was afraid that she might move if he did, Tommy let his hand sink down and around her shoulders. He stared at the top of her head for a moment before closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of her body against his, smelling nothing but the giant horse that was still standing beside them. She could have been anyone then for a moment, his mother, Greta, or Grace. The women he'd trusted to keep him tethered to reality and who had one after the other slipped away from him whether any of them wanted to or not.

After another moment Evie stepped away from him and he opened his eyes, finding hers fixed on his. He hadn't noticed just how green they were until that moment and they almost reminded him of Oz. More human, certainly, but below the aloofness and suspicions he could see nothing but curiosity for the world.

'Thank you', Evelyn mumbled and dropped her eyes now. Tommy nodded again, a curt nod, unsure what to do next. Silently they went to brush the horse, each working on one side of the beast until Curly appeared before them, his eyes darting from one to the other.

'T-T-T-Tommy?', Curly swallowed audibly. 'Ms. Evie?'

'Mornin', Curly', Tommy grinned at the kind but confused face that looked at him.

'Wh-Wh-What are you doing?', Curly looked almost upset now that he saw that everything had already been done and when Charlie appeared behind Curly, Tommy finally knew what to say.

'Making sure Charlie doesn't keep whining about how busy we keep you.'

'Is that why you two are here at 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning?', Charlie grinned back at him toothily and obviously didn't believe a single word of what he'd just said.

'Well, I should actually head out, I've got some errands to run', Evelyn said, pointing at a basket sitting by the entrance of the shed. As she walked out into the boatyard, Tommy caught up with her. Charlie had wagged his eyebrows at Tommy, and he'd been oddly glad to see his uncle in a better mood this morning.

'I'll give you a ride to the market', Tommy told Evelyn and watched as she shrugged but got in the car without any further comment.

'Will you come by tonight or are you skipping a Saturday like you usually do?', Evelyn asked as they started driving and Tommy was quiet for a moment. He hadn't made up his mind on that yet. She should be safe, and he didn't want to play at being someone else too often. Just often enough to hold onto the memories of who he had been before he began living on borrowed time. Like with the opium pipe, he tried to keep a balance between those times where nothing else would help and those where he could resist. Of course, it was only and illusion of power but it was better than giving into the screams in his head.

'Do you want me to?', he asked instead of giving an answer. He knew he was deflecting but at the same time he was curious to hear what she would say and he kept his eyes on the road as he waited for her reply.