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. (READ MORE)


















