When you rub your tongue against the top of your mouth, it feels broken and brittle, about to crumble in upon itself. Teeth loose, with wide open spaces between enamel and gums. Swallowing is impossible. The right corner of your upper lip twitches uncontrollably. Up down up down. Updown. Up. Up. It doesn’t hurt, but you don’t like not being in control of your own muscles. You blink against the whiteness. Small shapes in brown and blue swell from nothing in a corner across the room from you. Three small shapes. Two of the lumps are not moving. One of the shapes, the smallest one, rocks slowly back and forth. A sound comes from it. It’s a voice. A little boy. You can’t quite understand what the boy says. It’s obvious by the tone that he is sad. No. Not sad. He’s afraid. You try to bring the boy into focus. Your eyes are too dry to see clearly. No moisture to wipe the dust away. The boy rocks back and forth, apparently trying to soothe another small person lying in his lap. Too small to be an adult, it must be a child as well. On the other side of the room, the shape coughs.
