This time the son did not hide or close his eyes, though he could not see through them quite clearly. The room was fuzzed. The son’s arms were flexed as if for lifting. The figure in the hall stood unmoving for a long while. The son and the figure saw each other. The air around them seemed so empty it had no space. The son began to cough. The son could not move his head or hands and so instead hacked with his head back on the mattress, blooming germ-rind up above him. The son felt something metal in his mouth. The son coughed and coughed and spat a key. The key fell into the divot of his neck above the cell phone. The son’s chest began to twitch. The key was sinking. The son saw the figure had come forward slightly. He saw the figure had a gown—or not a gown but some large curtain—or not a curtain but a cape—or not a cape but something muddy, something thin and flat and woven. The son felt the ants burrowed inside him skitter through his lungs dry like a hive. The window light swung through quick cycles as the son watched the form emerge.
