I don’t feel cold. It’s not that I feel nothing, either.
What does being alive feel like? It’s kind of like that.
It just happened. There are no sirens, not yet.
The crumpled wreck is burning. I can smell it, but there’s no smoke, not yet.
There are footsteps, already, gravel crunching
and a passerby on the side of the road pressing his phone to his ear as he stumbles down the slope.
I think about home, and Henry. Something pulls at my chest, gently, and I’m there and so is he.
The door shuts behind him as Cooper slides around the corner and leaps, tail still wagging, into outstretched arms.
I never let him do that. “Good boy! Don’t tell Mom, okay?”
It just happened. He doesn’t know, not yet.
Something pulls at my chest, gently, and they’re gone and so am I.