Sometimes the pain was too much.
He wanted to scream but he couldn’t scream. His mouth felt as if it were wired shut, and so the scream smashed around in his head like some enraged, caged, wild thing, shaking every bone of his skull, exhausting him.
He dreamed.
He was in the tunnel again, a small bag clutched in his teeth. Then he was in the room under where she lay. He took the bag from his mouth and laid it in the corner of the room of dirt, like a good dog returning something to his master. Then he stood, though he could not stand up all the way. He listened, his ear pressed against the roof that was her floor. In his dream he could hear her breathing; resting his palms on the trapdoor, he could almost feel her. It was as if he was holding her up. There was a noise in the room. She was stirring, awake-if he could only reach her. He had to try to explain. He knew what he would say-he’d had a lot of time to think about it. Could he change the past? No. But he could change that small piece of the past that was him-that was still him. He would say something like that. He couldn’t think beyond that. Couldn’t think what she would say, couldn’t reach her, couldn’t “Cramer? It’s all right,” she said, her voice urgent but so quiet, speaking just to him. “Shhh, calm down already.”
He felt-imagined-no, felt her hand on his chest, just lying there. “Shhh. Listen…”