Thousand: Seven Hundred Fifty-Five

skin. You take a breath. It’s time to do that. Did you notice you weren’t breathing? You’re not a zombie, kid, you gotta partake of the air. It’s okay. There, there. The roses bear you no ill will. It’s only the wind. Only the wind shaking the bushes, rocking the trees. You look down the lane. She’s turning into that alley between sagging tenements. He’s flagged down the bus on the rural route. A giant bends down and scoops her from the path. No. There aren’t any giants anymore. You rub a hand across your brow. Your name again. From