I awoke swimming in sickness. There had been a pseudo-religious fervor in the air the night before, a massive liberation of frustration and self-consciousness. It is likely we were seen hovering outside our bodies. There was singing: hymns, show tunes, old soul music. Only Becky and I knew “On Top of Old Smokey”. We sang it with pride. Our fleeting glances revealed a connection honest—trust as sturdy as landlines. She smiled. I fell backwards. There was a chorus of voices, all the different voices, all the voices different and one.

            I sat up for a drink of water. My breaths slowly drifted out the open window.