Book One, Part Two, Chapter One: The Sweats
I go to bed.
I can’t sleep.
My body is slick with sweat.
I roll back and forth on my pallet on the floor and moan. I am like an addict without his drug. My drug: Ernie. I am deprived of Ernie. I can’t have Ernie. I am sick without you.
I want to sleep. Please, let me sleep. In sleep, I don’t think. I don’t feel. I forget the terrible thing that has happened, unless my dreams betray me.
But I don’t remember my dreams. Only one. You were standing. I saw your face, your mouth jerked sideways in distress, as if you’d just been shot. It was like the Oswald face just after he’d been shot in Dallas that long-ago November day.
Were you shot, Ernie?
Who shot you?