Free Gathering String by Mimi Johnson Page B

her. Faintly he heard the door click shut as he slid away.
    For an unknown time, he drifted in dark oblivion. But then, suddenly, he was choking on thick black smoke; orange, yellow and red flames rose to trap him amid the shrieking of breaking metal and blazing silhouettes. A wave of heat washed over him and he fought, thrashing in horror, as a spear of fire ran through his chest. He was burning, burning alive, and his eyes flew open at the sound of his own terrified cry.
    “Sam? Sam, you’re dreaming,” Her arms were around him, her voice sane and soft. “You’re OK, it’s all OK.” With each gasp, her clean, warm scent brought him back from hell. Struggling against the pain to sit up, he felt her arms tighten trying to help him, and he reached out, choking on sobs, and grabbed her close, burying his face against her shoulder.
    “Jesus!” His tongue felt thick, and he was drenched in clammy perspiration. “I knew I didn’t want to sleep. Fuck!” The only light came from the muted TV.
    Pulling back a little, she went to her knees, stretching over the lounge to push his hair back from his wet forehead, her voice low. “I know, I know. It happened to me too, every time I fell asleep this afternoon. I think we’re going to be frightened dreamers for a while.” Gently she tried to move out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go.
    “Tess,” his voice shook, and he was ashamed but couldn’t stop the words, the dream’s adrenaline flooding the medicated haze. “I wouldn’t have made it out of that plane without you.”
    “No, you would have …”
    He shook his head. “Opie and I were dead. You got us out.” His hands clutched her waist, so tight she winced, but he couldn’t loosen his grasp.
    “Don’t worry about that now. Sam, you’re OK, just exhausted. Let’s get you back to your room.” She would have stood, but he pulled her closer.
    “Can’t we ... Ah, Tess, just stay here, close to me?” His face was all sharp angles in the flickering light. “I’m in no shape to try anything, I swear to God. Can’t we just hold on here for a little while?” She hesitated. “Please,” it was a hoarse whisper from deep in his aching chest.
    With a sigh, she slid onto the chaise next to him, against his good side, the top of her head tucked just below his cheek. He brushed his face against the softness of her curls. After a long silence, he murmured, “Thank God.”
    “Sam?”
    “Um?”
    “Where’s your wife? Why didn’t she come when you called?”
    She couldn’t see him frown. “I told her not to.”
    “Why?”
    “I didn’t want her here.”
    She shifted a little, to look up at him, and he knew she’d ask why again. Not wanting to admit he didn’t want Judith to see him like this, he reached out and touched one finger to the fine, white-gold chain at her neck, whispering, “What is this?” With an inward shiver, he remembered her pulling it from her collar as the plane started to fall.
    “My dad gave it to me when I graduated from Brown. I majored in art, but always planned to start out in photojournalism. It’s a St. Francis De Sales medal.” There was self-consciousness in her voice, and he waited until she added softly, “He’s the patron saint of journalists.”
    Drowsy again, Sam muttered, “Well, St. Frank did a hell of job.” His eyes closed. “I still can’t believe we’re fucking alive.” Then he fell asleep. They both did, deeply and dreamlessly, gently holding each other’s wounds and terror.
    When Sam finally opened his eyes, he had no idea what time it was, or how long they’d been there. She was still next to him, curled on her side, sound asleep and warm in his arms. The white robe gapped just a little to reveal the smooth curve at the top of her breast, the long chain of her necklace a thin shadow across the creamy skin. Holding his breath, he gratefully, lightly, pressed the unbroken corner of his mouth to her forehead.
    And then the phone rang. As she pulled