Если я останусь

           Myeyesareclosed,andmydarkbrownhairiswetandrustywithblood.

           Ispinaway.Thisisn’tright.Thiscannotbehappening.Weareafamily,goingonadrive.Thisisn’treal.Imusthavefallenasleepinthecar.No!Stop.Pleasestop.Pleasewakeup!Iscreamintothechillyair.It’scold.Mybreathshouldsmoke.Itdoesn’t.Istaredownatmywrist,theonethatlooksfine,untouchedbybloodandgore,andIpinchashardasIcan.

           Idon’tfeelathing.

           Ihavehadnightmaresbefore—fallingnightmares,playingacellorecitalwithoutknowingthemusicnightmares,breakupwithAdamnightmares—butIhavealwaysbeenabletocommandmyselftoopenmyeyes,toliftmyheadfromthepillow,tohaltthehorrormovieplayingbehindmyclosedlids.Itryagain.Wakeup!Iscream.Wakeup!Wakeupwakeupwakeup!ButIcan’t.Idon’t.

           ThenIhearsomething.It’sthemusic.Icanstillhearthemusic.SoIconcentrateonthat.IfingerthenotesofBeethoven’sCelloSonatano.3withmyhands,asIoftendowhenIlistentopiecesIamworkingon.Adamcallsit"aircello."He’salwaysaskingmeifonedaywecanplayaduet,himonairguitar,meonaircello."Whenwe’redone,wecanthrashourairinstruments,"hejokes."Youknowyouwantto."

           Iplay,justfocusingonthat,untilthelastbitoflifeinthecardies,andthemusicgoeswithit.

           Itisn’tlongafterthatthesirenscome.