Just Remember to Breathe by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page B

I’m going to set you up for an appointment with the brain docs for next week. Let’s see that leg.”
    He did an examination of my right leg. It hurt. The muscles in my thigh and calf were still extremely weak: you could visibly see that my right leg was way smaller than the left.
    “Coming along,” he said. “I think it’s time you got back to running.”
    “ Running? I can barely walk!”
    “Yeah. Time to quit stalling, Paris. Just make sure you have a friend with you, in case you fall over and can’t get up.” He flashed a grin at me. “But I want you up and running, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Start out short distance, but get out there and do it. You hear me?”
    I nodded grimly, then said, “I don’t have any friends.”
    “Yeah, well, hire someone, then. But get out there and do it.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You only say that because you love me.”
    “Sure, Jerry.”
    “All right, asshole. Time for your workout.”
    Grimly, I nodded and stood. I kept thinking. Who could I ask to spot me when I was running? There was no one. Or, there was one person, but… could I ask her? Was it crazy to even think so? I didn’t want her taking pity on me. I didn’t want her doing it because she knew I was friendless and alone. I didn’t want her doing it because of our past, which was against the rules to talk about anyway. And the hell of it was, no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop imagining her scent, I couldn’t stop thinking of how wonderful it once felt to hold her in my arms.

    A little hair of the dog (Alex)

    Dylan and I had settled into a bit of a routine. We were both on the same schedule, work-study with Doctor Forrester on Monday, Wednesday, Friday from 3 p.m. until 6. We were making a lot of progress, and had categorized most of Forrester’s library within the first two weeks. Once, maybe twice a week, we’d go get some coffee afterward, and talk.
    Dylan was different. I’d known that since we first encountered each other again, but sometimes I could see it in conversation. Yeah, he was physically different, of course. But he was also quieter. When we knew each other in Israel, he always had a goofy smile, made silly jokes. Now, not so much. Occasionally I had to prod a little to get him to talk at all. It was disconcerting.
    This day was different. I’d been delayed in class, and I got to Doctor Forrester’s office a few minutes late.
    When I walked in the door, Dylan looked like… I don’t know. Like he was sick. His face was pale, and he was staring out the window, not actually doing anything, and he was breathing really quickly.
    “Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”
    He looked at me, startled. He was wearing sunglasses in the office, something he did pretty frequently, now that I thought about it. Almost like he was hung over. But Dylan didn’t drink. At least he didn’t used to.
    “Yeah,” he said. “I’m all right, just a rough morning.”
    “You want to talk about it?”
    “No,” he said.  
    Well, that wasn’t ambiguous.  
    We went to work, sorting through the last of Forrester’s collection. Next time we’d be moving over to the library of rare books and manuscripts to start searching for additional materials. I dreaded the change. Not because there was anything horrible about it, but mostly because I’d come to really enjoy our sessions in Forrester’s office.
    Speak of the devil. The door opened, and Forrester stumbled in.  
    His eyes went to Dylan, and when he saw his pale face and sunglasses he grinned. “Good afternoon, you two. The morning after is always a little rough, isn’t it Dylan?”
    Dylan sort of grunted, didn’t really answer.
    “A little hair of the dog?”
    “No thank you, sir.”
    That was the first time I came close to really disliking Forrester.  
    An hour later we were sitting in the coffee shop. He was looking worse, his face even paler than before. I said, “Dylan, I’m worried about you. You