Stretching an arm to his bedside table,
he clasps an object with his hand.
He raises it up, and with a click of a button
a source of light forces his pupils to constrict.
The light in the form of his cellphone screen read:

                        4:17 A.M.
                   Friday, May 13

On the bottom half of the screen was nothing (0 new text messages) but a picture of three smiling figures in a foreign land.
And in one swift motion he flicks his wrist—
the phone makes a thud, ten feet away.
There was no use for it
when hundreds of his texts and calls were answered by the wind.

It may or may not have been four days since the incident that caused water from a faucet to seep through his eyes. His face now pressed against a blanket,
a scream pierces through the four corners of the bedroom.

The faucet water now found its way to his lungs
as he huffed and puffed. And huffed. And puffed.
As to what happened to his parents, he neither knew nor hoped to know.

4:19 A.M. It’s once again time to try counting sheep.