It’s dark.
God, I open my eyes and it’s still dark.
I hear faint screams and the rush of water and the wail of bombs, the rat-tat stutter of sixteen-inch guns, each explosion shaking through me. I feel warm arms clutching me close, I hear the rapid thud of a heartbeat against my cheek, and when I smell Jack’s aftershave I wonder if I’m dead and this is heaven, this closed space, these tight arms. I raise my hand to my face and feel damp tears on my cheeks—I hope it’s tears and not blood, though my fingers find a tender spot on my forehead that I think is bleeding. I cup my hand in front of my eyes and blink, feeling the flutter of lashes against my palm, so I know my eyes are open, it’s just too dark to see anything.
When I sit up, Jack’s arms tighten around me reflexively. “Donnie?”
