“I shake his hand, and feel the jolt of electricity again from him. He laughs and raises his hand to show me the joy-buzzer in his palm.”

“I felt the electricity of his body behind me as he reached around me and took the card from my hand. He didn't move away, and I battled the urge to lean back into him, seeking the comfort of his strength. Would he wrap his arms around me? Make me feel safe, if only for a moment, and if only a delusion?”

“Across from me at the next row of supports Jim raised his hand and touched his fingers to his thumb a few times, imitating an opening and closing beak. Negotiate. He wanted me to engage a lunatic who had already turned four people into smoking meat. Okay. I could do that. “Alright, Jeremy!” I yelled into the night. “Give me the salamander and I won’t cut your head off!”Jim put his hand over his face and did some shaking. I thought he was laughing, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Why won't you hold me?" I ask, drawing back a little.He laughs a little, holds out his hands as if in explanation. They are covered in dirt and paint and blood.I pull his hand to mine, put my palm against his. I can feel the grit of sand, the slick of paint, and the cuts and scrapes that speak of his own journey."It will all come clean," I tell him.”

“He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair.”

“I roll the covers back up over him and take his hand, noticing how well our palms fit together and thinking back to just after the last time he saved me—when he took my hand and told me that we’d always be together.I lower my head to his chest and continue to squeeze his palm. Tears fall onto the bedsheets, dampening the fabric just above his heart. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, over and over again.A few moments later, there’s a twitching sensation inside my hand. Ben’s fingers glides over my thumb. ‘Sorry for what?” he breaths. His voice is raspy and weak.I lift my head to check his face. His eyelids flutter. The monitor starts beeping faster. And his lips struggle to move.“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him, searching for the nurse’s call buzzer.“Please,” he whispers, his eyes almost fully open now. “Don’t let go.”“I won’t,” I promise, gripping his hand even harder.”