Gluey tendrils of dried spit are pasted to the roof of your mouth. He takes up a remote, presses a button. The bed hums, your head and shoulders smoot...ly elevate to some near approximation of a sitting position. He takes a glass of ice water, holds it close enough to your head so you can feel its coldness, drizzles a few droplets on your parched lips. You lick up the icy drops and it feels sooo good. He takes his fingers away, puts down the glass he’s had his fingers in, picks up a fresh one,. The freezer-burned taste was horrible, and the face I made was hilarious even to me. I was talking about maybe getting a puppy when Chris’s head suddenly snapped around to look at something off screen. He stood up fast, and in the background I heard a distinct crack-crack-crack sound. I could see an M-4 carbine leaning against the wall of the room he was in, and he grabbed it. ‘Hannah baby, I hate to run, but I need to sign off. I love you!’ ‘I love you Chris!!’ I yelled, desperate for him to. More

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