Be asleep. Be asleep. Be asleep.

"Arthur, you're up," Francis said with a disapproving glare as he meandered into the bedroom. His husband could be as stubborn as a mule and would deny himself a good night's rest for his company, but he couldn't find the heart to blame him for it. It was in Arthur's nature to be fretful while conjuring up worst case scenarios.

No, he hadn't been injured on the job, and yes, he had remembered to lock the front door on his way in. And no, he hadn't overindulged to fill the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He denied himself many late night snacks because Arthur insisted frequent spikes in his glucose levels would surely lead to early-onset Type 2 diabetes. Energy drinks were entirely out of the question, and his caffeine intake was severely restricted.

Admittedly, he let Arthur mother him at times. The nagging often set him in his place, and who was he to argue with it? Arthur was always right. He anticipated every disaster before it struck—mostly, anyway. There was that one time when Matthew came home with lice in the first grade from sharing his polar-bear styled winter cap with another student and was miserable for a good two weeks, but not even Arthur's premonitions could've stopped that.

God forbid, however, if Francis tried to return the doting. Never one to relinquish control, Arthur refused to fall victim to fussing. Every tender chiding was perceived as a provocation, and eventually, Francis lost the will to try to break down his walls. Some men were chained to their pride for eternity.

Yet, they still needed one another to be at ease, and when Arthur's exhausted green eyes bore holes into his skull that night, he couldn't stop the twist of sorrow in his chest. He'd stayed up again, only to make sure Francis was all right—to be able to touch his face and know he was whole and safe. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course.

Francis tiptoed over to the bedside and tried to sneak a peek at what the man was working on. There were papers cumbering his lap, stapled and glowing with highlights. "What're you reading?"

"Words, words, words," Arthur replied, quite drowsy and disoriented. He was quoting Hamlet—not a good sign. "It's Hemingway's 'Hills Like White Elephants'. I'm reading it with a class."

"The terrible high school class that has ruined you?"

"Yes… They're a headache, but they're my headache. For a little while, anyway. Once a permanent teacher is found then I'll—damn you. Don't change the subject! Where have you been?"

"I had to stay late at the station."

Arthur huffed and put aside his annotated copy of Hemingway's collected works with a resound thump. "You should have called."

"I didn't want to wake you," Francis explained, taking Arthur's hand in his own. He worried far too much. "You have enough going on in that head of yours as it is."

A minute of silence washed over them as Francis changed out of his uniform and into something more appropriate for sleep. He'd crossed the room and began to settle under the bedcovers when Arthur raised his voice again, tone terse.

"You should have called."

"I'm sorry, mon chou," Francis whispered against the other's neck, nose rubbing against skin. "You know me, I have a tendency to misbehave. I didn't mean to make you worry."

Arthur sneered at the ceiling, rather restless. "I wasn't worried."

"Mmm," Francis hummed with a cheeky smile, limp-limbed and thoroughly fatigued. "I haven't had the chance to enjoy a good Hemingway story in a long time. Read me a part, would you?"

He'd finally said the right words, apparently. After a second of reluctance, Arthur shifted and rustled the sheets as he retrieved the story. He couldn't resist the opportunity to share literature with another soul, and his bookishness trumped his need to stay bitter.

"'We can have everything.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can have the whole world.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can go everywhere.'

'No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.'

'It's ours.'

'No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.'"

Francis sighed, feeling the night's burdens fly away far above his head and splay against the stars. He loved his family—loved them more than they'd ever know. "Ah, the Master of Dialogue strikes again."

"I'll be lucky if I can grasp the class's attention for five seconds. To the untrained ear, Hemingway can seem dry."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to get through to them."

"You have far too much faith in me."

"Why are ye fearful? Oh, ye of little faith," Francis goaded him. Arthur was always more fun when riled up. "I think you're more than capable of mentoring a hoard of adolescents."

"You haven't seen me struggle to take attendance."

"Maybe you can show me some time after class."

Arthur scowled and turned off the lamp. "You must really want to sleep on the couch tonight."

They'd reached their limit of banter for the evening. Better to call it quits.

"Goodnight, mon amour."

"Can I call you Frank?"

"No."

Raivis looked deflated but hastily recovered from the blow. It seemed he'd been working up the courage to ask that question for a while. "Fine, but we need some codenames if we want to be a memorable crime-fighting duo. I think I'll be Black Raven. I can help you choose yours, if you're out of ideas."

Francis counted to ten and hoped he'd be granted some relief from this torture. This was what purgatory was like, then. "Finish writing up that parking ticket, and let's get out of here."

"I think Midnight Dolphin works well for you. It's cryptic."

"Raivis."

He stuck a yellow slip of paper under the windshield wiper of the vehicle at fault and nodded. "Don't worry, you can be the bad cop. I'll be the one offering water and mints to the scum of the city as you chip away at their alibis. Just call me Good Cop from now on—or Black Raven, of course. Either works, really."

"Are you done yet?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm comin'," Raivis appeased, heading back to the patrol car and climbing into the driver's seat. "The PA State Police is on it. We own this hood now. No one's getting away with a parking infraction."

"Don't let your power get to your head," Francis grunted. "We're here to serve the public—not condemn them."

"But you heard what Carriedo said! He was really impressed with our work as of late. This could be our chance to rise through the ranks. We could be the best officers on the force."

"I'd stay out of trouble if I were you."

Raivis' eyes twinkled with mischief. "Ha! Trouble is my middle name. Okay, Midnight Dolphin, it's break time. I'm in the mood for a Boston cream doughnut."

"You won't be a high-ranking officer if you gain twenty pounds on the job," Francis jibed, checking his watch for the hundredth time. Could the Latvian boy at least try to be more mature?

Raivis, however, ignored the criticisms and decided to make Francis even more miserable by singing along to the radio. "First thing's first, I'm the realest…"

"Raivis, one of us isn't going to make it home tonight if you don't—"

"This can be our song! Rooftop like we bringin' '88 back."

"You weren't even alive in 1988."

"I just can't worry 'bout no haters, gotta stay on my grind."

Francis groaned and pounded his fist against the window softly. "I used to be a Catholic until now. God should have spared me."

"Lighten up a bit!" Raivis said as he swung his head to the beat.

"You have a lot to learn, garçon."

The weather couldn't have been any more perfect, Alfred thought. He woke to a Saturday morning packaged in a crisp cocoon of snow—ideal conditions for sledding, snow angels, and snowball wars. The day clearly waited to be enjoyed, and so, Alfred hopped out of bed and raced down the hall, feet pounding against the floorboards as he rushed into the bedroom across from his. Staying inside was a crime!

"Guys, look at all the snow outside!"

Unfortunately, he came to a begrudging stop at the doorway because he wasn't the only visitor waiting to be tended to. His remark fell on deaf ears as a sallow Mattie stood ahead of him, teary eyed and shivering while Papa shushed him with quiet coos.

"Matthieu, what's wrong?"

"My stomach!"

Daddy rushed to them a moment later, wearing his slippers and a fleece sweater. He bent down and placed a practiced hand on Mattie's sweat-caked forehead with a frown. "He's warm, Francis. I'll get the thermometer and a fever reducer."

Papa made a sound of agreement and planted a comforting kiss in Mattie's hair. "Come, you can sleep in our room today. It's probably just a stomach bug."

Alfred wrinkled his face in displeasure. It wasn't fair! Why did Mattie have to get sick on potentially the greatest snow day of the year? Who was he going to go sledding with now? Why couldn't he just tough it out for a few hours? The agony!

"Here," Daddy said as he returned to the bedroom, flourishing a bottle of medicine and the aforementioned thermometer. "We're going to have to take a trip to the pharmacy for more Tylenol."

Papa helped Mattie lie down on the bed and took his temperature as Alfred lingered by the door, impatience peaking. "I can do that. We're running low on milk as well."

"100.6," Daddy said, feeding Matthew a spoonful of the medicine with encouraging murmurs. "Not as bad as we thought."

"I'll get dressed and try to shovel out the car."

And then, Papa zipped out of the room, nearly crashing into Alfred. "Mon dieu, Alfred. I didn't notice you standing there."

"Papa, can I go and play outside?"

"I don't want you out there by yourself. Maybe later, all right? Would you like to take a ride to the store with me instead?"

It wasn't exactly the best alternative, but it was better than being cooped up inside for the foreseeable future.

"Okay," Alfred decided, skipping down the stairs for a quick breakfast. He didn't spend as much time with Papa as he did with Daddy, so it'd be nice to experience the morning with someone else for a change.

He chugged a bowl of cereal and flung on his winter coat, ready to traverse the unchartered territory of the North Pole when Papa came to collect him. They trudged over to the car, snow crunching under their boots as they cleared most of the snow away from the tires. Melting flakes seeped through their gloves, leaving their hands icy and wet by the time they were ready to leave the driveway.

"Can I ride shotgun?" Alfred asked as Papa started the engine and set the heat on full-blast.

The word "no" was already poised on Papa's lips, but Alfred put on his best pout to counteract it. He knew how Daddy felt about "children sitting in the front seat" and the "dangers" associated with it, but it wouldn't hurt to bend the rules for one day, right?

Papa released a flustered puff of breath and smiled. "Okay, but only for today. Don't tell your father."

"You're the best!" Alfred cheered, jumping into the passenger's seat with a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear. Papa was way easier to persuade than Daddy. "Can we get hot chocolate at the café later?"

"On our way back," Papa agreed, backing out of the driveway. "We'll buy some for Matthieu too. Maybe he'll feel well enough to drink it by the time we return."

"Uh-huh… Hey, Papa?"

"Yes, my bumblebee?"

"Don't call me that! I'm too old now!" Alfred protested, knitting his brows into a well-fashioned scowl. He'd picked up the habit from his father.

"You're never too old to be loved. Now, what was your question?"

"Is it bad that Mattie and I are adopted?"

Papa sniffled against the cold air and said, "Of course not. Plenty of children are adopted."

"People at school say that kids who are adopted end up at orphanages and aren't loved like kids who aren't adopted."

"That's not true in the slightest. Which people have been saying this?"

Alfred sunk down in his seat and twiddled his thumbs. "People…"

"Well, those people aren't worth your time, and you shouldn't listen to anything they say," Papa lectured, changing the radio station to something catchy and light-hearted. He gave Alfred a pointed look at the next stoplight, recognizing the theme of their conversation. "You know, Alfred, if you ever feel like someone is…bothering you at school, you should tell your father and me."

"I know…"

They didn't say much after that, seeing as Papa was busy concentrating on finding a good parking spot once they had reached the shopping plaza. Soon, they were off to the pharmacy, where Alfred insisted they had to buy orange flavored medicine because it was far superior to grape and had a less putrid aftertaste.

It was a brief ordeal, and then they were off to the grocery store to pick up milk, fresh produce, and bagels for lunch. Alfred tried to convince Papa to forego the asparagus and broccoli in their basket, but he lost this battle, much to his chagrin.

The promised hot chocolate was last on their list, and Alfred gulped most of it down by the time they reached the car again. It trickled down his throat and eased the cold that seemed to have seeped into his bones. His eyelids became heavy, and his breath slowed on their drive back, sleep creeping up on him.

Francis smiled at the sight and pushed down the urge to kiss the boy's head, considering it would rouse him. Silly, boy… How could he ever think he wasn't loved?

"Look out!"

The road was slick.

Should've seen him coming. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

A gasp tore out of his throat at the sound of squelching tires and bending metal. Someone outside was screaming as glass exploded from the back window and pelted him like a blizzard. His head ricocheted off the steering wheel, and the airbag deployed, smothering his face.

Someone had crashed into them.

Time stopped. He may have cried out in pain, but he couldn't remember as his neck began to throb.

"Alfred!" he wheezed, feeling something wet dribble down his hairline. He rotated to the right to get a look at the boy, but a flash of burning pain stopped him mid-way and made him see stars. His son—he had to make sure he was unharmed, but the pain increased by a tenfold every second, and soon the only thing his mind could register was the shrieking sound of emergency vehicles coming to the scene.

He let out a moan as the door on his side was wrenched open and a firefighter met his gaze.

"Sir? Stay very still, okay? You're all right," the man told him as he cut him out of his seatbelt. "Big breaths, now. Take it easy."

Multiple pairs of arms were dragging him out of the wreckage and onto a stretcher. His eyes were staring up at the gray sky, and snowflakes landed on his cheeks as he flailed an arm helplessly. "My son… Please, my son!"

The firefighter at his side was replaced by a paramedic, and a stethoscope was set on his chest. "He's being taken care of, sir. Tell me where the pain is."

Francis groaned and gagged on his own spit, barely catching what was being said to him. "Neck."

"Can you move your head to the side for me?"

"Can't… Hurts."

"All right then. Let's get you a brace. Can you tell me your name?"

"Francis."

"Okay, Francis. I'm gonna have to lift your head a little bit. I'll try to be very gentle," the paramedic said, guiding him along. Gloved hands worked their way down the nape of his neck and directed him where to move.

He winced as he was jostled momentarily, but then his neck was finally immobilized by the brace, and he wasn't on the brink of going unconscious anymore.

"You're doing great, Francis."

"Is Alfred all right? Oh, God—"

"Let's take care of you right now. Are you allergic to any medications, Francis?"

"No."

"Any medical conditions?"

"No. "

He was being rolled into the back of an ambulance, but there was still no sight of Alfred. Everything of importance was blocked from his view. He did, however, see a glimpse of the ruins that remained of the car. It'd been smashed like a can of soda.

"Do you have an emergency contact I could reach?"

Francis squeezed his eyes shut as tears slithered down his nose. "My husband, Arthur."

He recited Arthur's cellphone number and felt the sting of an IV needle being inserted into the top of his hand. Then, the doors to the back of the ambulance were slammed shut.

"I'm gonna give you something for the pain, Francis. You just hang in there and try to relax."

"I need Arthur."

"We'll call him as soon as we get you to the hospital. Sound good?"

Above him, he could hear the steady screech of a siren, and it made his head hurt more than it already did. The paramedic was cleaning up a wound on his scalp, but he couldn't feel the burn of disinfectant on his flesh because of the strong pain medication. Everything was numb and freezing all at once.

His mouth began to move against his will, and he spoke in delirious babble.

"I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die, Francis. You're in pretty good shape."

"I put him in the front seat… Shouldn't have been in the front…"

The doors to the ambulance swung open once more, and he was being pushed into the hospital, half-awake as a doctor tried to strike a conversation with him.

But he wasn't in a conversational mood, and he felt the sudden urge to be sick. He tried to roll over on his side, but he no longer had control over his muscles, and he was left to sputter for help. "Going to be—"

The doctor, the paramedic, and a nurse carefully positioned him on his side, and he promptly retched into the basin provided for him. Now he knew how Matthew had felt earlier that morning.

"Suspected spinal injury and maybe a concussion as well… He needs a CT scan."

"Breathing, pulse, and blood pressure are all stable."

"Okay, let's also start him on methylprednisolone for any swelling."

He was sobbing now—he could feel the high-pitched wheezes struggling to make their way out of his throat and into the world. He'd forgotten what it was like to cry and hear his mangled tone. His entire face was damp with a mix of perspiration and tears, and he wished Arthur were there. Wished he would just take his hand and tell him it was all right. He was safe. Alfred was safe—healthy and safe.

He imagined Arthur's voice in that drowsy lilt he had late at night, and pleaded with him to read him a piece. Dostoyevsky, Salinger, Orwell—anything. He swore he heard Arthur whispering a Carver story in his ear—pictured him holding the boys and speaking words that cured every ill.

"I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."

"Matthew, I want you to finish all of your toast," Arthur reminded, ruffling the boy's hair as he had his brunch in bed. "And where has your father wandered off to this time? He's not answering his phone. Maybe your brother is being a handful, hmm?"

"Probably," Matthew replied, nibbling on his food without much enthusiasm. His appetite was understandably nonexistent.

"I'll be right back, lad. I'm going to step out for a minute."

He lit a cigarette and stood in the snow covered driveway, watching the smoke gather in tiny clouds before blending with the air. Something nagged at him, but he wasn't sure what was giving him such an uneasy feeling. Francis rarely ignored his phone calls, and with Matthew under the weather, it was strange Francis hadn't answered the first time.

He snuffed out the cigarette and buried it in the snow before heading back toward the house. It wasn't until he reached the door that he noticed the phone ringing. Had Francis's cellphone battery died? That made sense.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, I'm calling for a Mr. Arthur Kirkland."

"Speaking. How may I help you?"

"This is Allentown State Hospital… There's been an accident."

His blood curdled and froze. Surely, they had the wrong number. What kind of demented joke was this?

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your husband and son are in our care because of an automobile collision."

"I-I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"You were listed as the emergency contact."

He gripped the side table for support, fingers trembling. The part of his brain that still managed to function began to plan a route to get there. Allentown… Allentown… Thirty minutes away—longer by bus. He'd have to leave Matthew with the neighbors.

"I'm on my way."

And then, he ran.