38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter thirty-eight
Trevor woke from a restless sleep when phlegm, dripping down his nose into his nasal passages, choked off his air.
He’d been snoring. He knew he was snoring because his sleep wasn’t really sleep.
It was more of a half conscious doze, just on the edge of sleep, that left him more exhausted than if he’d never tried to begin with.
He kept hearing the long peeling rumbles from his nose and throat as he fought the airline seat for a more comfortable position.
Did they intentionally make these things to prevent slumber? Were they designed by a sadist?
A particularly loud snore finally forced Trevor to peel open his eyes.
The light from the overheads stampeded through his pupils into his brain.
His eyelids felt like someone had glued them shut while he wrestled unsuccessfully with the concept of sleep.
He’d never snored before. Never a day in his life.
His throat felt swollen and tender to the touch. He put the back of his hand to his forehead. It was like touching a hot stove.
Not good, he thought. Not good at all.
For a few desperate minutes, Trevor sat there in his airline seat, hoping beyond hope, that it was just a simple flu. Just a garden variety cold. But a voice at the back of his brain told him that wasn’t the case.
Somewhere, somehow, he’d come into contact with the virus.
The improperly fitted suit? Could it have been that simple? Trevor wondered.
Still a chance it’s a cold, he thought.
A great whacking cough caused him to hunch forward in his seat while he covered his mouth.
His lungs burned with each torturous boom.
His abs cramped. Just when he thought it was over, another cough, an aftershock of the first gripped him.
When it was over, Trevor rested his head against the seat in front and stared down at his hand.
Small dark droplets of blood flecked his palm.
Hello darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.
The line from the song popped into Trevor’s head. He hadn’t heard it in years. Now the refrain ran through his brain on repeat.
Was this the end?
It didn’t seem possible.
After all, Trevor had fairly well mapped out his life and career.
He would spend a few years working his way up through the intelligence directorate at CIA, land a duty station, maybe in Brazil or Argentina.
Find a wife. Settle down. Two point five kids.
A house in the suburbs. Barbecue on the weekends.
Vacations to Maui. Recently he’d been picturing Sam in the leading role of devoted wife. Why not?
And now…
Well now it seemed things would not quite shake out the way Trevor had pictured.
Not at all.
Another coughing fit seized him. When it was done he had to force his eyes open. He looked around the cabin and he saw people. The flight was full. Every seat taken. Every single one of them breathing his recycled air.
My God, thought Trevor. Have I killed all these people?
The woman sitting next to him said, “You don’t look so good.”
Trevor turned to her. The swelling in his throat made talking difficult. He said, “I don’t feel so good. I need to make a phone call.”