Cal decided that sleeping was difficult. At night, he'd lie in bed, drift off, maybe fall asleep for a few minutes. Start halfway-dreaming. Then twitch awake. Then he'd drift off again. And dream. And twitch awake. Sleep. Dream. Twitch. Repeat.
As if flinching awake every few moments wasn't irritating enough, the half-dreams-or what fragments of fragments he remembered the next morning-left him with images he couldn't shake.
Like shadowed doorways and snatches of sunlight on barren concrete. Like friends long-buried.
And every time Cal flinched awake, he felt the fresh grief of leaving again.
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