Dear. I'm dead. I should have listened to you. It is dangerous to suck on Halls Cool Berry Breezers in bed after all. Who would have thought? They're small, slippery and melt; you'd think they'd be safe. Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't listen. I didn't fall asleep though. I was sitting up, like you always told me. Anyway, it's not my time yet. Wake up, you have to save me.
So ended the dream of Natasha Babbitt at 5:42 a.m., January 6, 2017. Her eyes shot open. The blurry bedroom came into focus. She saw what she knew was her bright green sweater dangling over the edge of her dresser. That bothered her. She should have folded it up and put it away. She started to think about how bold it was of her to wear spring colors in the dead of winter, when "Wake up, you have to save me," repeated in her brain. She had a brief war with the heavy winter comforter, flipped over, and found Bruce in the gray dawn, laying lifeless beside her, a stream of drool flowing out of the open breathless cave of his mouth and pooling on the pillow beside her.
She reached over him and turned on the lamp to confirm what she thought she saw in the murky light.
She screamed the confirmation.
