“I close my eyes, hoping to slip into the same dream again, but then that never happens, does it?”

“Who worries for dying? If I close my eyes tonight, I will either dream, or not, or my eyes will open and I will be here again. And if none of those happen, and I do not wake? Who worries for dying?”

“I don’t keep track of time. Im lost in the sameness of the stale air and humming of the plane. My eyelids keep slipping down, but whenever I close them, all I see is the white of snow. I don’t want to return to that dream. I already know what happens next, when that winter night blurred into an eternity. Frigid fear seeps through me now, like I never closed the door on that part of my life. Believe me, I’ve tried. My mother left me to the snow and the dogs. I was six years old.”

“I grabbed Aunt Prue's tiny hand, her fingers as small as bare twigs in winter. I closed my eyes and took her other hand, twisting my strong fingers together with her frail ones. I rested my forehead against our hands and closed my eyes. I imagined lifting my head up and seeing her smiling, the tape and tubes gone. I wondered if wishing was the same thing as praying. If hoping for something badly enough could make it happen.”

“But I know I'll never sleep again. I can't close my eyes when I'm next to her. It's like sleeping with a spider.”

“I was hoping against hope he'd refill his Prozac so we could be in love again, but, sadly, that never happened.”