Not breath.
Not sound.
Nothing.
His blood is warm on my hands. It soaks into my palms. I press down hard, too hard, trying to keep him here, trying to keep him whole, trying to keep him alive.
“Come on, Luke,” I choke out. “Come on, kid. Don’t you do this. Don’t you leave me.”
But he’s not moving. He never moves.
The forest around us goes silent.
Not peaceful.Dead.
Then something grabs my shoulders, hands hard as iron clamps, and yanks me back. I dig my heels into the dirt, fight with everything in me, scream until my throat tears.
“Let go! He needs me. Let me go!”
The world blurs.
Luke fades.
The forest dissolves.
All that’s left is the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears, loud as a war drum.
You failed him.
You failed him.
You failed him.
I wake with a shout.
My body jerks upright, heart slamming against my ribs, trying to break free, breath tearing out of my lungs in ragged gasps. Sweat slicks my hair to my forehead, icy and burning at the same time.
For a second, just one awful second, I don’t know where I am.
Then the shadows settle into familiar shapes. The old dresser. The window. My boots by the door.
Home.
Not the forest.
Notthatday.
But my hands still shake as if they’re covered in blood.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and drag in a breath that feels too shallow.
It’s the same nightmare I’ve had a thousand times.
The same guilt that wakes me. The same truth that settles, heavy as a stone on my chest:
If I had gotten to him sooner, if I had yelled louder, if I had made him slow down…
Maybe he’d still be alive.
