When people meet my son they think he is beautiful. Something ancient and cosmic swirls behind those eyelashes, and you will either fall in love or run away, terrified.
I tried talking to them. I told them my name—Michael—and that I meant no harm. Almost redundant when you are the one about to be eaten.
In a blink, the tablecloth has become a hospital sheet—still heavy, and now it is shrouding me instead of the table. Do I need hiding? You are holding my hand, but it’s too tight. I want to squeeze back. “It’s okay,” I am saying. “I’m right here.”
“If I’m in a coma, and I’m a vegetable, then I want you to switch off the machine.”