When I was asleep, he turned in his seat and smiled.
“They're going to find you,” he said.
I didn't know what he meant. We were just a few hours out of Los Angeles, flying through clear skies. The turbulence had finally subsided. We were almost home. Pretty soon I'd be able to stand up and work the dull ache out of my legs. God knows what I'd give for a hot shower---
“They're going to find you,” he said again, “You have to hold on.”
When I tried to touch him, he pulled away. When I opened my eyes, I remembered.
He sat beside me, still strapped into his seat, but his face was slack. The shirt he bought on our last day in Chicago was stained dark down the center of his chest. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. No one did.
No one but me. The dull ache in my legs wasn't from being stuck on a plane for too long---they'd broken in the crash. I shut my eyes, willing sleep to come. He was alive when I was asleep. If he was alive, I could hold on.