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“And we’ll be all right for a while,” Freddie says evasively,
ducking the look Ira gives him.
“I suppose,” says Ira. “Just think about it and talk to him.”
“Sure,” says Freddie. “Sure thing.”

•••
Ira is asleep, dreaming about winter. Freddie is beside him,
back to Ira’s chest, and Ira’s got a hand draped over Freddie’s
hip, fingers resting low on Freddie’s stomach. As Ira shifts in
his sleep, he wakes with his eyes closed, floating, dimly aware
that the images playing out behind his eyelids might be dreams,
when Freddie makes a quiet noise that starts to shake the foggi-
ness from Ira’s brain.
“Shh,” Ira whispers, but Freddie makes the noise again, and
Ira can feel Freddie’s breaths deepening, a flutter of muscle in
his belly catching on the inhale, and the noise becomes a grunt.
Ira hushes him softly again, moving his legs to spoon him-
self flush against Freddie, who curls his shoulders inward and
lets out a huffed moan.
“Hey… hey Fred, wake up. S’all right,” Ira mumbles, but
Freddie’s still asleep, breaths becoming more erratic. “Freddie,”
Ira says again, more firmly, propping himself up on an arm and
leaning over him, “Freddie, you’re dreaming.”
Freddie lets out a small cry and starts speaking in his sleep,
half-formed words that don’t make any sense, except for that
they sound terrified. Ira takes hold of Freddie’s shoulder to shake
him, because he needs to wake up, it’s just a nightmare —just
like it’s been most nights these past weeks —
Freddie wakes with a desperate shout, and Ira pulls him in
by his waist, holding on tight.
“Oh, god,” Freddie moans, clutching at Ira. “Oh my god;
my arm, oh my god, I can’t go back —I can’t go —oh god, my
arm —”
“You’re all right —Fred —listen to me; you’re home now
—you’re all right, now —I’ve got you; you’re all right —”

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