He could hardly grip the torch, it's light disappeared into darkness a foot or two ahead. He couldn't even see the boatman at the front of the boat as it seemed to hurtle down the river of it's own accord. Faster and faster, nearly out of control.

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And sometimes, he’d imagine ridiculous things. Because it was a dream after all. Once he imagined giant daffodils growing amidst the palms, and another time a great hippo lapping up the water by the river surrounded by the palms. The hippo was entirely out of place of course. This was not an African savanna. Yet, in that moment, amidst his dream, the hippo belonged. It looked as if there was no place that it would rather be.

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It was dawning on him that he lacked much besides just cash. A basic understanding of how his night was going for one thing.

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She woke up early. Her son was coming this evening. She allowed herself to soak in the eager anticipation, but ignored the tightness that was also there. A feeling akin to dread that she wouldn’t acknowledge much less allow herself to label.

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My father paused his study and looked up at me. My mother stopped trying to stupefy the lobster owner and gave me a stern look. As if I was the crazy person. My sister, to her credit, carried on her gymnastics training on the parking bumps. But the spell had broken. The lobster owner, used the moment to gather himself.

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