His knees are bent.
Like a frog.
His nostril whistles.
He sleeps peacefully.
He's 56.
"Charlie," I whisper into the dead of night, giving him a slight nudge.
The ceiling fan hums.
"Charlie, you're low. Have some juice."
"Charlie!"
So many nights I've whispered these words into his sleeping ears. So many nights for four-and-a-half years. So many nights Susanne has. So many nights other moms and dads around the world whisper the very same words to their children in the darkness. We need a cure.
He keeps his eyes closed.
He just nods and opens his mouth when he feels the straw poking at his lips.
He jumps when the cold juice dribbles down his chin and streaks across his neck as if it is alcohol on an open wound.
When I pull the juice box away, his lips keep reaching like he's kissing a girl for the first time.
I wait fifteen minutes.
49.
I wait fifteen more minutes.
But I'm asleep at the wheel and I'm veering off the highway.
I'm mugged. Down for the count. I'm bottle-over-the-head out of it.
It's five hours later and the sun is rising.
I never checked him again.
He's 56.
Low all night.
God, what have I done? What could have happened?
