Free Breakdown by Katherine Amt Hanna

remembered.
    “Are you okay?” She held the candle down low beside her. “I heard you calling out.”
    He clutched at the covers, tried to control his breathing, tried to get the dream out of his brain. “I’m okay,” he managed.
    “Can I get you anything?”
    He shook his head, didn’t know if she could see it, but didn’t know if he could say anything else. He needed a drink of water.
    She came into the room, set the candle on the bureau, and poured him a glass of water. His hand trembled as he took it from her, gulped it down. He sat holding the glass until she took it from his hand. His ribs hurt with every breath. He started coughing, and it seemed to last forever. Eventually he sagged back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He felt her sit down on the end of the bed.
    “I’m sorry I woke you,” he said.
    “It’s okay. I could light the lamp, leave it low.”
    He didn’t answer her. She got up, and he heard the clink of the glass chimney as she lit it.
    “Do you want me to sit here for a bit?”
    “No, I’ll be all right. Thank you.”
    “You can call me if you need anything. I’m in the next room.”
    “Thank you,” he said again, and he heard the door shut softly. He opened his eyes and saw the small pale flame of the lamp. It was nearly the same as the lamp at Archie’s cabin on the mountain in New York. He remembered watching the flame of that lamp as it got lower and lower and finally sputtered out in the middle of the night. All of the torches were dead by then, all the candles had been burned down to the last guttering puddles of wax, and it was the last of the oil. He had started sleeping on the couch by the woodstove, the final source of light, little shafts seeping out through the front grate.
    It had been a long time since he had felt such a need for light. It had been a while since he’d had that dream. His eyes hurt, and he closed them, and eventually he slept.
    Chris awoke with a shudder, fists clenched. He blinked to clear his eyes, huddled under the covers, and took an inventory of the ordinary room until he calmed. The London dreams, still new and wrenching, kept changing. How long before they became routine? Too long.
    The window was a pale rectangle of light. Chris didn’t hear anything in the house yet. He crawled out of bed and turned down the lamp wick until the flame went out. He pushed back the curtains. He gazed down on the front garden, the iron gate in the wall, the road. Clumps of trees and bushes dotted the field across from the house. Dense grey clouds pressed down, and wispy patches of fog lingered at the edges of the field. Off to the left, down the road, Chris glimpsed the top of a house that might be where Cooper had grown up. He heard a bird singing. He left the window and had a long coughing fit, hanging on to the top of the bureau until it passed, then padded in bare feet down the hall to the loo.
    When he came out, Pauline was standing by her door in a long, pale dressing gown.
    “Good morning,” she whispered. “Did you sleep more?”
    “Yes,” he nodded as he passed her. He stopped in his doorway. “I don’t think I’ll get up yet.”
    “Okay, that’s fine. I’ll bring you breakfast later.”
    “Thanks,” he said, and closed the door. He drank from the bottle on the bureau, plumped up the pillows, and lay back carefully against them, half sitting. He thought he might not cough as much if he wasn’t lying down. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He felt he might sleep now that it was light.
    When he woke next, it was more slowly. The dream lingered, but this one was easier to deal with. It left only a deep sadness, none of the panic of some of the others. He used to wake up crying when he dreamed about Sophie, but not anymore.
    Chris sat up carefully. A shaft of weak sunlight came in through the curtains. From the angle, he could tell it was near noon. He rubbed at his face. His ribs still hurt, but he felt more rested than he