Free Henry Franks by Peter Adam Salomon

Henry.”
    â€œI know. I’m forgetful, not crazy.”
    â€œAmnesia doesn’t mean that. It’s a process to remember,” she said. “Your brain is still trying to understand the accident and, perhaps, it’s using your dreams to help with that.”
    â€œThere was an accident,” he said, each word its own sentence, distinct and harsh.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI should have died.”
    â€œYou remember that?”
    He shook his head, hair flying away from his face, and his eyes couldn’t stay still. “No.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œMy dad told me, ‘There was an accident.’ I remember him telling me, about the rain, the construction; I should have died.” Henry slumped down in the chair, his hands falling open on the seat. One deep breath after another. He held the last one, counting to ten, mouthing the numbers. “There was an accident. I should have died.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThere was an accident.”
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œI should have died.”
    He slumped there, moving only enough to breathe. His eyes twitched to the side, the rapid tics out of place in his pale motionless face.
    â€œThere was an accident.”
    â€œHenry,” she said, walking across the office to sit on the couch next to him. “It’s Dr. Saville. Can you breathe for me?”
    He took one long shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œI had another dream.”
    His hand flopped to the couch between them, as though it wasn’t even attached to an arm. The scar wrapped around the wrist glistened with sweat. The back of the hand had a dusting of fine pale hairs that almost reached the scar. Above the scar, up his forearm, dark hair stuck to the skin in the heat.
    â€œAnyone you know?” she asked.
    â€œElizabeth.”
    â€œNo one else?”
    â€œStrangers,” he said.
    â€œDead?”
    He nodded. A wall of bangs fell into his eyes and he left them there.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou didn’t recognize them at all?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid Elizabeth?”
    â€œShe told me she had a secret,” he said.
    â€œA secret?”
    â€œThey’re always dead.”
    â€œElizabeth’s secrets?”
    â€œShe didn’t do it,” he said.
    â€œDid she tell you that?” she asked.
    â€œDoesn’t have to. I know.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe didn’t know them.”
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œJust a dream, right?” He raised his head, looking at her.
    â€œYour nose is bleeding.” Dr. Saville crossed the room to get a tissue, but when she turned back around Henry was standing right behind her. She stumbled against the foot of her chair.
    He reached out his blond-haired hand to steady her, leaving a bloody print on her sleeve. Trails of blood had streaked around his mouth and down his chin; drops splattered on his shirt.
    â€œIt’s the meds. They make my nose bleed.” He smiled at her, his white teeth sharp in a sea of red. “You okay?”
    Dr. Saville pulled her arm out of his grasp. “Here,” she handed him the box of tissues. “For your nose.”
    He sat down, head back, and counted his breaths. “Just a dream,” he said, talking to the ceiling.
    â€œDoes she have any other secrets, Henry?”
    He shrugged and then looked up at her. “I think more people are going to die.”
    Blood had stained his teeth, but his nose had stopped bleeding. Dried red flakes remained on his lips and chin when he smiled.
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œThere was an accident,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I should have died.” He closed his eyes and the silence stretched out as he took one deep breath after another.
    The alarm shattered the quiet. Henry stood up, next to Dr. Saville as she dropped the pad down on the desk. It landed next to a folded-over copy of the