For the next few hours, I couldn't sleep. I had to stare at the ceiling, my eyes forced open by the adrenaline pumping incessantly in my blood. I was pissed. I was hurt. But more than anything, I was afraid. Everything in my life had spun out of my control; every neat thread I had tucked gently into place, all strewn everywhere, their cray colors playing in front of my eyes with every blink.
Micah and I talked. He didn't like to use words like 'kill' or 'destroy' or even 'shoot.' Every time I said what we would have to do in my plodding unemotional way, he flinched back into the cushion. He used his hands to speak for him, his words soft and small and his gestures big and flailing. He didn't want to be here, I could see it in the way he looked at me and had to shift his eyes immediately
