Callan was lying on his bed, covered with a thick blanket. His room was quiet as he slept. But then he turned suddenly, his face scrunched up in pain.
His hands gripped the sheets.
His legs kicked under the covers.
"No," he whispered in his sleep. "No… I didn't…"
In his nightmare, he was eleven years old again. The air smelled like baby powder. He stood in the middle of the cramped room, staring at the baby lying still on the rug.
His tiny baby brother lay still. Not breathing. Not crying as usual. Not moving.
"You killed him!" His mother screamed. "You rolled over him in your sleep!"
Callan's heart thudded in his chest. His small hands were shaking. He looked down at his pajamas. Had the baby slept on the rug with him? He couldn't remember.
Why would the baby be on the floor next to him when he always slept in his bassinet?
His mother slapped him hard on his back to get his attention. Her face was wild, her eyes burning with an emotion he couldn't place.
