It was like one of those stop-motion films. Or maybe it was more like that handful of pictures his mom brought out when she was drinking. Dealing out snapshots of her life as if she had a chance at a full-house when the rest of them had just folded and walked away. The one dimensional images coming faster and faster.

He remembered the phone call, running out of the apartment without a jacket, the feeling of panic. Had he even closed the door? The car, his wife waving at him from across the busy street. No, that was wrong. That was the wrong order. The call, running, his wife, the car. The car....

"I'm here baby. I'm with you. Don't let go of my hand. Just hang on."

Her hand? He wasn't holding on to anything. It was this awful weight that was holding him down. Tethering him to the ground. This was wrong. Why was she here? The call. The call had been about her. She was in the hospital. Why was she here when they'd said she was in the hospital?