Tilda gasps awake.
She had that dream.
The one where Jack looms over her with a butcher knife
and begins hacking away.
Jack’s asleep.
His breaths are deep and rhythmic.
She brushes hair from his face.
He looks so sweet, so gentle. Because he is.
He’s a good guy—perfect guy.
So why the dreams?
Why the hairs rising on her arms—her back—her neck?
“Get it together, Tilda,” she says.
As she settles into bed, Jack, still rhythmically breathing, opens his eyes.
Under the covers, his hands tighten on the butcher blade.
