It was… ritual.
His knees threatened to give.
He stumbled back, bumping into her standing desk.Sticky notes fluttered down around him like bright, useless leaves.
For a moment he let himself look anywhere but at the kneeling figure.His gaze skittered across the walls, looking for anomalies, for some clue that would wake him from this.
He found nothing there.A still life stared back at him blankly.
He turned back to Sarah.
There was no universe in which she was alive.
His chest clenched.
For a moment, the room telescoped down to a single, narrow tunnel: his breath rasping, the faint buzz of the desk lamp, the black eye of the painted bird watching him.
This is not happening.
He heard himself make a sound — a small, raw thing he didn’t recognize.His hand flew to his mouth, as if he could push it back in.
He needed to move.
He needed to tell someone.
He needed to pull the plug on this nightmare and invite the grown-ups into the room — doctors, cops, individuals with official shoes and calm voices.
He fumbled in his jeans pocket for his phone.
It stuck against the fabric; his hands were sweating.
He yanked it free.
The screen lit up, too bright in the lamplight, icons surreal.For a second he couldn’t remember how to do something as basic as dial three digits.His thumb hovered over the contacts list, as if some rational, living version of Sarah might still be there to answer a call.
Get a grip.
He swiped to the keypad and jabbed in 9-1-1.
His finger hesitated over the green call button.
What if he was wrong?What if she was in some bizarre meditative state, or—?
Another look at her took care of that thought.
He pressedCall.
The line rang once.Twice.
Then: “911, what is your emergency?”
The operator’s voice was female, calm, professional in the way that suggested she’d dealt with everything from fender-benders to the end of the world before breakfast.
He opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
He swallowed, tried again.
