A Momentary Lapse of Reason

A Momentary Lapse Of Reason

By: Steven Dean

Darren felt frustrated. The luminescent numbers on the car stereo displayed a time much later than he intended. 11:45 was much too late to be out with his two year old son, Dylan. Amazingly enough, no tantrums had occurred. Dylan was quite content to suck his thumb and rub his mom’s strawberry blond hair back and forth across his cheek.

Gwen had her eyes closed and sleepily she said, “Close your eyes, Dylan. You’re tired honey. Mommy and Daddy will put you to bed when we get home.”

“No. I don’t go bed, “ Dylan’s small voice returned defiantly. Nevertheless, his eyes closed.

The day had been a fun one, but long. Darren loved seeing his son smile with the total joy that only an innocent two year old can express. They enjoyed their time spent at the “wee house," as Dylan called the amusement park. After it closed, they had gone to pick up a couple of things from a 24-hour store. Of course, a supposedly ten minute long stop, ended up taking over an hour and a half. Not that they wasted too much time; Gwen grabbed things quickly, but kept remembering other things they needed.

Darren tried to let go of his frustration, since there was really no one to blame, just bad timing. At least they were almost home, maybe ten minutes away. The roads were dark now that they had left the freeway, but this area continued to grow quickly. Their house had been one of the first in their subdivision, but was now surrounded by other homes. Even the intersection up ahead had been changed from a stop sign to a traffic light.

Green light ahead, only about seven minutes now, and they could all cuddle in bed together. Darren smiled, imaging his son rubbing his wrist back and forth across his goatee. Dylan usually took turns doing that or playing with Gwen’s hair.

None of them saw the Semi, speeding down the road to their left, the driver fighting to stay awake. He lost. As Darren’s pickup entered the intersection, the semi hurtled out of the mostly unlit suburban road, ran the red light and slammed into the rear of their truck.

Darren fought to control the uncontrollable, thinking only that he must protect his family, he couldn’t lose his cool, he had to get them through this.

His thoughts barely germinated when they struck a tree, spun as the tree snapped, and slammed into the wall of the new fire station. Everything was loud and yet strangely quiet at the same time. A loud buzz seemed to permeate everywhere. Distant alarms blared into the night. Gasoline fumes tickled his nose. Screaming. He heard screaming. Was it Gwen? Was she all right?

Legs weak underneath him, he tried hard not to sway. Black asphalt moved like an ocean at night. Slowly, his hands moved up to help balance him. Strange. His palms were covered in blood; dark red blood.

Everything stopped. Only his head moved, swiveling up like a robot’s head on rusty hinges. His truck was almost unrecognizable. Metal twisted and ripped like it was only cloth. People seemed to be shouting somewhere.

There. Gwen on the ground, tears streaking down her face, holding her leg. Her gaze settled on him and became blank momentarily. Then her head, and her emerald eyes, inched toward the truck. Darren turned to follow her gaze and saw the mangled truck, the missing rear door, and what was inside.

Dylan. Blue fabric torn and partially hidden by the rising smoke. A small hand over the side of the car seat.

Darren’s heart thundered in his chest. All other sound was lost in the rhythmic cacophony of his own heartbeat with which his ears thrummed. Wrenching his feet loose of the sticky asphalt, he rushed toward the truck. An arm attempted to restrain him. He flung it away and then he was there.

Dylan’s little face was bruised, blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. His head was leaning away from him, eyes closed. Black soot was beginning to cover the tips of Dylan’s hanging fingers. What if something was broken? Should he move him?

“The truck’s gonna blow!”, someone screeched. Before he knew it, his hands flew over the car seat, unbuckling his son and lifting him as gently as possible. A distant burning pain seared Darren’s legs and the lower part of his abdomen.

“Daddy, I scared.” Dylan’s little voice whispered in his ear. Darren crushed his son to his chest and began to run away from the wreckage as a rush of wind knocked him over. Shielding Dylan as much as possible, he rolled away from the explosion.

Hope soared through his veins. They made it. Dylan was okay, hurt, but okay. Gwen was all right and he was only hurt a little himself.

He shifted Dylan’s weight off his shoulder and laid him gently on the ground. The sense of relief and the first traces of a smile froze upon Darren’s face. All the muscles in his body seized up. He couldn’t move.

Dylan looked up at him blankly. A piece of shrapnel protruded from his neck. His son wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t calling for his Daddy. He couldn’t tell him he was scared. He couldn’t say anything.

Deep inside Darren, something broke loose. He could feel it building up, like a balloon filling with a helium that was made of screams, and about to pop. Eyes locked onto his son’s handsome bruised little face. The feeling grew stronger and fiercer as he slowly picked his son back up, cradling him in his arms.

A wretched cry of agony tore loose from his lips, reverberating through his entire body. Never did it diminish and never did it end.

The small weight of Dylan’s arms and legs against him didn’t allow the agony to end. Never could he let go of his son. Never.

Lost In Darkness

Eventually, his cry of agony became a part of him. Never ending, but becoming a part of the fabric of his world. His focus was solely on Dylan. He could never let his son go. Never.

Darren stared down at the shape of Dylan’s small form. A little person, a miniature version of himself. The permanent combination of his DNA and Gwen’s.

Darren willed away the blood, the burns, the cuts. He pictured Dylan whole and unharmed, alive and vibrant, full of innocent joy and love.

He didn’t stop willing it. To believe anything else was unacceptable. And at some point, something happened. The blood, burns, and cuts that he refused to see were still there, but a small spark of white light appeared on one cut and then another.

Darren doubled his will, tripled it. The sparks grew in number and spread over Dylan’s small form. Darren reached deeper still. There was nothing stronger in this world than the love he had for his son and he was determined that somehow, someway, he would save his son.

A star field grew over Dylan’s body and then leaped outward in every direction at once. Temporarily blinded, Darren squeezed his eyes shut, but pictured his son in his mind, terrified that one moment of distraction would cost him everything.

Once his eyes recovered, he opened them, determined to see a small boy full of life. But Dylan was gone.

The world was a silent void, bereft of life. Gone were the screams, the smoke, the crumbling red brick wall of the fire station, and the remnants of his burning pickup.

Darkness. He was lost in darkness. And . . . nothing was right. Nothing felt familiar. Darren felt off balance, as if he were sitting on a raft in the pitch black of night, but worse. The air was different, sensations were changed somehow.

Eyes closed against the darkness, he focused on Dylan and nothing else. Distantly, he felt the weight of his son’s body against his arms. He imagined himself reaching inside and grabbing his life-force, transferring it to Dylan. There was no hesitation in wishing to sacrifice himself so his son could live.

A soft light fell against his eyelids. He opened them. Gray. The world was now gray. Something hung before him. An electric blue crisscross of lines that seemed to float and move like an ocean.

Suddenly, it was gone. Shadows raced across the gray void where only a moment before electric blue light had shined. They darted over each other; up, down, sideways, and every direction possible. For a split second, Darren saw electric blue again. A euphoric, yet nauseous feeling, enveloped him. Just as quick, it was gone.

A tingling began in his arms and he looked down to where he felt Dylan, but hadn’t seen him since the darkness came. A golden light lay in his arms. Hope swept through Darren, as he concentrated on shaping it. Before his eyes, his son reappeared, now made entirely of this wondrous golden light.

A shadow darted over Dylan’s golden form. Then another. And another. The golden light weakened. Alarm raced through Darren. Although the nature of the threat wasn’t clear, he knew it was there. He swiped at one of the shadows with his hand and felt an unbearable cold seize it.

The shadow seemed to dart away angrily, but there were others, and more were coming. Darren swiped at another and another, the unbearable cold seizing him each time. Heartache and cold agony battled within him.

He looked down at Dylan’s golden form. The agony of a loss he could never endure increased. Physical pain could do nothing in comparison. Darren swiped at the shadows with pure ferocity, his physical agony lost within the ocean of his emotional one.

He would fight with everything he was until his son was safe and whole in his arms.

Hospital

Dr. Stan Goodin looked up from his notations. It was always the same. His patient was catatonic. He never spoke, never moved on his own, and always returned to the same position.

Stan ran his hands through his light brown hair and sighed. Habitually, he pushed his steel rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose using his index finger. Gray eyes stared blankly at the wall of his office.

The patient, Darren Brooks, sat on the floor of his room, never using the bed, the toilet, or anything else on his own. Physically, he was fine. The few cuts, bruises, and burns sustained in the accident were all healed. No permanent damage had been done, physically.

Mentally, the man had snapped. Not a very professional term, but true nonetheless. Seven men had been required to pry his dead son’s body from his grasp. Even after they succeeded, he dropped back to his knees and positioned his arms as if still holding his son.

This had to be one of the most tragic cases Dr. Goodin had ever encountered. He himself had a four year old daughter and couldn’t imagine what the grief of losing her would do to him.

Stan opened the file again and looked at the picture. Darren Brooks, kneeling on the ground, his son’s limp form cradled in his arms, his head tilted back in a roar of agony. Unmoving flames rose from the pickup that was partially caught in the background, along with several shocked witnesses.

Gray eyes drifted back to Darren’s grief stricken face, howling out its agony. He wanted to help this man. To give him a chance at a new life. Darren’s wife, Gwen, still came to see him, but each visit was further apart.

Soon, he would be alone. No one would care. The injustice of reality angered Stan. Bitterness was too frequent a companion during his workdays.

Lines of determination settled around his gray eyes. He would not let this man become some statistic. And he would not allow himself to become one of the bitter men that turn to cruelty or indifference as their only refuge. Giving in to that would be to lose himself in the chaos of existence. Another lost soul. There were too many as it is.

Unconsciously, his index finger pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Right now, he would keep treatments less aggressive. He felt or maybe just hoped, that Darren Brooks would find his own way back.

Lost In Darkness

Darren was at war. With shadows that never ceased their attack, regardless of the fact that he never surrendered. One arm would tire and Darren would shift Dylan’s phantom form to the other. Now and then, he even held Dylan’s form wedged between his legs to allow himself to swipe at their tormentors with both hands.

Tiredness on a level he had never experienced before settled into his bones. Yet, he still fought. Sometimes he wondered when his will would give out. Then he’d slam the door in his mind that even allowed the possibility of giving up. The cost was too great.

His arms were made of lead. Too heavy to possibly move. Yet, again and again, he swiped at the shadows. They no longer attacked in a completely chaotic fashion. At times they circled slowly around them, possibly hoping Darren would let his guard down. That would not happen.

But once, after circling, while Darren rested his arms at his sides, he had nearly been unable to lift them in time to deflect their sudden assault. His arms had seized momentarily, muscles uncooperative. Shadowy hands had pulled at his son, his hold on him had nearly gave. Finally, he had managed a weak swipe. When his hand had touched the shadow’s, white fire had raced through it for a moment. Eerie shrieks had filled the void as they rushed away.

Somewhere inside himself, he knew that his muscles, his body, where moved by his will alone. Right now, Darren and Dylan existed outside of whatever constituted normal reality. Tired muscles shouldn’t be able to stop his fight against the shadows. Something else was wrong. Finding out what that was, had to be the focus of his attention now. Before it was too late.

Hospital

Stan Goodin didn’t feel like much of a doctor at the moment. He didn’t feel good either. One deep breath and then another, trying to release the unbearable frustration and confusion he felt. An index finger pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he took one more deep breath.

Method after method had failed to reach Darren Brooks in the slightest. Nothing changed. Except, it was strange that the man had only been here five years, which made him about thirty-two, and yet, his hair had all turned white. Even his beard and eyebrows. It wasn’t completely unheard of for an extreme mental trauma to cause premature gray, but it was odd. And it wasn’t just gray, but white, pure senior citizen white.

Goodin shook his head clear. Irrelevant details were distracting him and he needed to focus on the real problem. Reaching him; releasing the soul trapped inside Darren’s body, saving the man, that’s what mattered.

For a moment, he pondered his obsession with Brooks. Over the last five years, his work days had gradually grown longer, as he grew more and more determined to help his patient. His wife couldn’t understand why this particular case had become so important to him.

Stan knew he empathized with the man, but there was something else too. Something that incited a determination and passion that he hadn’t felt since his youth. Elusive as the reason was, it did exist and he couldn’t ignore it.

Melanie was losing patience and would soon leave him. He felt this. He knew it. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. As his life crumbled around him, Goodin’s obsession only intensified.

Pulling his hands through his tousled hair, he looked back at the open file on his desk. Tingles crawled up his spine. He stared, focusing on the photo of Brooks attached to the left of the file, the admittance photo, and the new photo, which a nurse had set upon the open folder while Goodin had been on the phone earlier.

On the left, Darren looked like a young handsome man in his late twenties; brown hair, green eyes, smooth skin. The eyes held a definite tinge of anguish in them. On the right, Darren’s hair was white and wrinkles had traced definite lines around his eyes and mouth.

Stan leaned over the picture till his nose was less than a quarter inch from its surface. Besides a few new wrinkles, there wasn’t much other evidence of the time he had spent here. After five years in this hospital, there was still no paleness, no real loss of vitality. Green eyes still held anguish, but now, Stan was sure, there was something new. Excitement traveled through his system, possibly pumped there, along with blood, by his heart. Determination; Stan was sure those green eyes held a look of determination.

Lost In Darkness

Darren fought as fiercely as he ever had, but he was losing ground. The shadows attacked more frequently and with increasing confidence. Soon they would rip and tear at the golden energy of his precious son. Why? Why was he losing ground? Never had his love diminished, never had he faltered in his determination. What was wrong?

The shadows closed in; a large group this time. Numbness returned to his limbs as he lashed out frantically at them. Frustration rose up in him as they closed and erupted in a roar of desperate defiance. That scattered them. He felt, no knew, that it wouldn’t last.

Suddenly, Darren realized that though he had never lost focus on the love he held for his son, he couldn’t picture his face right now. Shock stole through his entire being. Shadows quickly multiplied and grew into an oncoming wall.

Focus. He needed to focus. An eerie calm settled on him. Dark masses roiled and bubbled across the surface of the approaching wall, but Darren no longer saw them. Instead, a smile spread across his face as he pictured Dylan running toward him calling out, “Daddy, Daddy!” Darren remembered the feel of his small body as they hugged each other. Even the smell of Dylan’s shampoo entered his nostrils. He breathed in little boy; His little boy.

“I love you, Daddy.” Dylan’s little voice said in his ear. A power surged through him, carried along by all the joy, protective love, and everything else that fatherhood encompassed.

Shadows began crumbling off the oncoming wall; slowly at first, and then in an avalanche. The wall dissipated before it ever reached them.

Turning his total attention to bringing his son back to life, in his mind, if not reality, Darren ceased to see anything but Dylan. Memories of laughter, smiles, tears, and excitement crawled clearly through his mind. Each brought into sharp focus with complete concentration.

Though he could not see the dissipating wall because his attention was elsewhere, Darren knew it continued to crumble. His soul perceived the shrieks of anger and frustration coming from the black shadows. Their dark energy seemed to be ebbing away.

When it became undetectable, he opened his eyes. A blue tinge had returned to this dark gray place and the crisscross pattern of electric blue was visible in the distance. Darren reached toward it, but seemed instead to move away.

For a moment, an understanding dawned within him. He knew what the electric blue crisscross pattern was. The knowledge was almost upon him and he knew that once he understood, he could save Dylan, bring him back to life.

Suddenly, electric blue squares floated in front of him. Without hesitation or thought, Darren grabbed at it. Soothing hot fire soared through him and peace settled over him. Dylan’s golden glow intensified and his golden form seemed somehow more substantial.

Darren looked up to study the crisscross pattern in greater detail and was shocked to see darkness once again surrounding them. Only a faint blue emanated from his closed fist, the rest of the electric blue pattern was gone.

With the disappearance of the incredible pattern, his feeling of understanding vanished as well. Darren looked into the gray void, filled with confusion, but stronger still for his slim hold on this enigmatic mystery.

Hospital

Stan Goodin stared at the date on the calendar. Today was not a holiday or anniversary of the usual sort. The date would not mean much to anyone else, but for Stan the date brought a mystery into focus and made him question his own sanity.

Twenty-seven years had passed since Darren Brooks had been admitted to this hospital. Stan was the only doctor left on staff from that distant date. Since then, he had gone from one of several psychiatrists on staff, to the head of his department, and then to hospital administrator. Over his entire time, he had kept track of Darren Brooks. His obsession with the man had probably helped his career. Long hours looking into his case, much of it on his own time, had convinced many of his dedication.

Stan was amazed that no one had seen the obsession for what it was. Except his ex-wife, of course. His marriage had ended shortly after his interest in the case had become a full blown obsession.

From the time he had noticed the lack of great physical change and the seeming determination in Darren Brooks’ eyes, Stan had begun to take an annual photo of the man. He tossed the photos into a locked drawer of his large green metal filing cabinet and for some strange reason, he had never allowed himself to look at them again.

Today, twenty-seven years since the day he had met Darren Brooks, he opened the drawer. Hesitation gripped him momentarily and he looked away, not wanting to see.

Pacing his office, he took note of the clutter on his desk. Pencils, pens, paper clips, and other paraphernalia were grouped together and returned to their proper places. Then, stealing a quick glance at the still open drawer, he began to clear off the pictures of his family and friends, his stapler, clipboard, and document tray. Now, a seemingly endless mahogany surface stretched out before him. Empty space demanded to be filled. The drawer beckoned. Fidgeting, some reluctant part of himself protesting, he returned to the drawer and removed all the pictures it contained. He organized the photos by date stamp, avoiding any direct glances at the man displayed in each.

Slowly, his eyes moved from the mahogany of his desk, to the first three pictures lying upon it. Darren stared at him with sadness and determination. White hair and a few wrinkles apparent, both odd, for a man in his late twenties.

Stan laid out the next three photos. The white hair became salt and pepper and the look of determination strengthened.

Fingertips tugged at the edge of one photo, peeking at what the other side had to reveal. The slight weight of the photograph seemed exaggerated by the single fingertip used to lift and topple it over. He averted his eyes as he turned the next two photos over in the same manner. Eyes crawled over the surface of the mahogany desk and took in the trio. Wrinkles had smoothed out, there was still no paleness, and that look in his eyes was unmistakable.

Stan shook his head, his mind wanted to deny what it knew and what his eyes saw. Year after year, a catatonic patient grew healthier and looked younger, instead of looking older, paler, and sicker.

He turned five photos over this time. Darren’s hair was now regaining color, dark brown, peppered here and there. No visible wrinkles and still no paleness.

Five more photos. Darren’s hair was now solid brown and his eyes a steady display of fierceness.

Stan laid out the rest of the photos, seeing exactly what he knew he’d see. Darren Brooks, twenty-seven years after the day he was admitted, looked exactly as he did on that long ago day. The only difference was the intensity that now radiated from the man in waves.

Stan got up and paced his office. His reflection in the mirror over the sink caught his attention. Gray and white hair, numerous wrinkles, and a definite paleness. There was no mystery about what the last quarter century had done to him. But how could it have been so kind to Darren Brooks?

Most of the staff that dealt with Brooks assumed he had been admitted as a child. Stan allowed very few to see his file. Those that had were fascinated at first and then scared. More than a few had left the hospital, uncomfortable with the mystery of Darren Brooks.

No one knew the case as well as Dr. Stan Goodin and only he realized what had to be done. Stan knew that the patient he had cared for over the last twenty-seven years of his life; through the loss of his marriage, his children, and his friends; had to die.

Darren Brooks was at best a tortured soul trapped in an unaging body. At worst, some unholy spirit possessed him with unknown intent. It was Stan’s duty, as the only one who understood this, to end the torturous impasse.

To rid the world of this enigma, once and for all.

Lost In Darkness

Darren had lost all sense of time. He had no idea how long things had been like this. He was sure that years had passed, but not how many.

The faint blue glow of his fist had become his constant companion. His grip never slackened. Numerous attempts to dislodge him had been made, but the shadows always retreated as if stung by his touch.

For a while, he had felt secure letting time slip by. Dylan was stable and Darren felt strong, even vigorous. Something had started to bother him lately, though. He realized that even though their position was secure, no change, no return to normal life, was still a loss. The shadows were winners in this stalemate. Every moment that passed was time lost, time that should have been spent experiencing a full life with his son and his wife. Gwen’s face was still sharp in his mind and it caused an ache in his chest.

Within his fist, the blue glow dimmed, and Darren heard the rush of wind, as if a hoard of shadows were descending upon them. Immediately, he focused on Dylan again, picturing moments of their life together. The blue glow brightened and the wind stopped howling.

Anger surged through him. How could he have been so careless? He had momentarily lost focus and it could have cost him all the progress he had made. His heart beat harder with his growing anger at himself and the endless stalemate they were trapped in.

The blue glow grew brighter again and Darren intensified his anger. Something told him to allow his anger to grow, to feed it, and to feel it. A faint blue electric crisscross began to appear before him.

More, he needed more. Darren reached inside himself for anger, love, joy, hatred, sorrow, happiness, and despair. He allowed himself to feel every emotion he had ever felt. Made himself feel them in their entirety. Drowned himself in emotion. And the blue electric pattern took shape, clearer than ever before.

Understanding, slammed back into him. Somehow he knew, the blue electric pattern grew with his emotions because his emotions were all a part of life. Which made the blue electric pattern before him, the Fabric of Life, itself!

The crisscross pattern became an intricate weave of millions of fibers all glowing with energy, with life itself. Darren entangled himself with the Fabric of Life and gripped Dylan as tightly as he could.

Power, energy, pure life itself, coursed through him and Dylan. The darkness before him grew into a blinding blue sea of energy. Everything became them and they were everything, as blue became white.

Hospital

Dr. Stan Goodin knew it was against his Hippocratic oath to take a life, but Darren Brooks was unnatural. Some unholy spirit possessed him and Stan could not allow it to exist any longer. Twenty-seven years was long enough. It had to end.

Sliding a drawer back in his desk, he removed a black leather case rectangular in shape. He opened it, admiring the red velvet, and slowly removed the scalpel.

Light gleamed off the blade. Over and over, he turned it, letting the light play with it. Gray eyes closed softly for a moment and then he stood. The furniture was all in place and everything tidy as he made his way out the door.

Green tile alternated with white as Stan approached Mr. Brook’s room. A perfect rectangle of white within white, the door taunted him. His hand rose straight up and paused an inch from the doorknob.

Mr. Brook’s room was unlocked. He was catatonic and there had never been any cause to lock it. Orderlies had all gone home an hour ago and there was nothing to stop him from completing his mission. Yet, he hesitated. After a moment, and three slow deep breaths, his hand began to move again.

The metal of the knob was cool as Stan’s hand closed upon it. A quarter turn, a soft click, a slight push, and the door swung open.

Mr. Brooks sat on the floor, his arms cradling a dead son that hadn’t been there for twenty-seven years. He was young, with brown hair and green eyes. This was exactly the same man that had entered the hospital all those years ago. Terror temporarily tackled the thoughts tumbling through his head. Mind made blank, he froze. Then his mind exploded in every direction. Would Darren fight back? Would he even move? Would Stan go to hell for this? Would the evil spirit possess him instead? A stillness overcame him and Stan pushed all thoughts from his head, but one. It had to end.

Stan took a step forward, turning the scalpel in his hand. Green eyes flicked up to Stan’s face and his breath caught. Was Mr. Brooks looking at him?

Darren Brooks suddenly leaned forward, as if cradling his son closer to his chest. Golden light flooded the small room and Stan saw that arms empty for many years, now held a glowing child.

As the scalpel dropped from his loose fingers, Stan’s eyes grew wider than they ever had in sixty years of life. An almost inaudible whimper escaped him.

Then Darren and his son began to grow smaller, while not really shrinking, as if they moved farther away, while staying still.

Stan sank to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, as Darren and son disappeared, leaving only a small rush of air in their wake.

Epilogue

Dylan looked up at him blankly. A piece of shrapnel protruded from his neck. His son wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t calling for his Daddy. He couldn’t tell him he was scared. He couldn’t say anything.

Deep inside Darren, something broke loose. He could feel it building up as he stared at his son’s handsome bruised little face. The feeling grew stronger and fiercer as he slowly picked him back up, cradling him in his arms.

Inside Darren blue electric energy began to flow out of his soul, into his arms, out of his hands, and over his son’s little body. Dylan glowed blue as the shrapnel pushed its way out of his neck and fell to the asphalt below.

A small gasp erupted from his blood stained lips, his eyes flicked open. The wind played with Dylan’s sandy blond hair as a smile flowed over Darren’s face and tears of joy flowed from his eyes.

Small blue innocent eyes stared up at him. “Daddy, you kay?”, asked a little boy’s voice. One of Dylan’s little hands reached up to comfort his Daddy, while the other gave his mouth a thumb to suck on.

Darren couldn’t help but chuckle as he answered, the tears still streaming and covering his face, “I am now, son. I am now.”