Not that I know if I should believe him.” I had to be awake anyway, though, to check on your father because of his concussion.” “The two of you were coughing so badly all night.” It looks a lot worse than it is,” I said. Even I had to admit that it did look nasty, like I’d been in a knife fight–and lost. She held up my left hand and looked at the stitches. She released her grip and leaned back so she could look me square in the eyes. She burst into tears, rushed over, and threw her arms around me. She looked so upset–she must have seen me wiping the gunk on the bedspread. God knows what it was, but I figured almost anything could have been lining my throat and lungs. I continued to cough until I spat it out into my hand–thick, black phlegm. I started to cough like I was still somewhere in that cloud of dust. I remembered thinking that I’d survived the plane crashing into the building, the explosion, the fire, the mad rush down the stairs, and the collapse of the building, only to die, suffocating, in the dust and debris. There was the evidence, right there on my hands–the cuts, the gash that I got crawling through the debris and the dust storm and then scrambling away, unable to see or breathe, on all fours. It was like some sort of bizarre dream–no, a nightmare–but I knew it was all real. They were both cut, and there was a line of stitches extending from the palm of my left hand almost up to the wrist. I sat up and stretched and looked down at my hands. But there was light coming through the window and I thought I really should get up. The bed felt warm and soft, and all I wanted to do was sleep some more.

We All Fall Down by Eric Walters