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CHAPTER SEVEN Three, Two, You
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MAYBE THIS was a bad idea. Installing a brigade, assigning Sydney as his sous chef. Pretending, even for a second, that Michael was there. That Michael was alive and breathing, and he could just ask him who the fuck Nico was. Maybe that was a bad idea, to let himself hope that all of this was some ugly dream. Some nightmare that seared his taste buds like scalding hot water. Because now — now — he felt sick.
He felt his chest tighten. His knees grow weak. He felt his heart pounding in his chest like a snare drum. He felt it all, amplified. His vision blurry. The sadness, the grief, it all weighed down on him. Like a tumor, snuggled up nice and warm in his body. Like a parasite, draining every source of goodness out of him through a sieve. He was losing it.
