Sleepers awaken. What message does Sean’s neighbor Adele leave? Why will Sandra say or do almost anything to protect Sean from Fiona? Why is the talent scout Paolo still scouting Sína? Sleepers awaken.

Sean slowly awakened, but still he was less than fully alert. Apparently, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He looked down to see himself wearing his cousin’s favorite flirty, blue chiffon dress. It was her favorite because its fabric was so light that whenever she turned around in it, the skirt flew up almost, but not quite, giving a peek to onlookers. Sean became aware of the gentle caress of nylon about his legs, but the pantyhose were sagging around his waist after sleeping in them. He saw a pair of high-heeled navy blue pumps on the floor.

Like yesterday morning, he had no idea why he was waking up wearing his cousin’s clothes. He couldn’t remember getting dressed during the night. But then again, Sean couldn’t remember going to bed, either.

Glancing at the table in front of the sofa, Sean froze sitting up, as if in shock. His violin lay in the open case, the shoulder rest attached and a handkerchief tucked around its chinrest. His music stand stood across the room with a score open on it. Sean couldn’t quite believe it, but the evidence was clear that for the first time in a year, he had played his violin. Yet he couldn’t remember playing it.

So Sean wandered back through his bedroom to the closet where he looked at himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. He looked so much like Kelly. Stripping out of his cousin’s blue dress down to just bra and panties, she still appeared to be staring back at him. Grabbing a jar of cold cream from Kelly’s drawer of their common dresser, Sean went to the bathroom sink to look in its mirror before taking his morning shower.

☆ ☆ ☆

One of the small oblong windows refracted a sunbeam so that it penetrated just the corner of Adele’s eye. As the sunlight warmed her face, the girl began stretching out on the sofa and greeted the morning with a smile. The Chaconne that had induced her to sleep still sounded in her mind. A musician to her deepest inner being, music always played in her mind. She needed no MP3 player or other device to listen to; she could always hear mentally anything that she wished. Nonetheless, when she arrived home, well after midnight, she had turned off her mind’s ear to listen to a neighbor unknowingly serenading her.

Noting the time, a little after six o’clock, she knew that she needed to get to her apartment and get ready for her day. But next she reached for her purse and pulled out a pen and notepad. Adele thought a moment, then wrote a brief message.

The young woman stood up and tried unsuccessfully to smooth the wrinkles from her navy blue corduroy skirt. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and her purse over the other. Adele walked over to the door of the apartment and, kneeling down, slid the note under the door.

☆ ☆ ☆

Inside Café Tír na n-Óg, Fiona and Mórag each ordered and paid for a cappuccino and a croissant from Sandra at the bar, then found themselves a quieter table in a corner. A moment later, Debbie brought their food and beverages to them.

“G’mornin’, girls!” Debbie greeted them in her peachy, Georgian drawl. “You each had a cappuccino, then a cherry croissant for you, Fiona, and a chocolate for you, Mórag.”

“Thank you, Debbie,” offered Mórag on their behalf.

“And a good morning to you as well,” added Fiona. “By the way, I know that Sean lives in the neighborhood here, but do you know exactly where his apartment is?”

“Y’know, I don’t know exactly where it is,” the barista admitted. “I know it’s close, ’coz he always walks or bicycles here. But I’ve never gone there with him or asked. Why?”

“We just wanna, like, remind him of his audition tonight,” answered Mórag. “He was supposed to come yesterday morning but he got called in to work here.”

Debbie knew that Sean had shown up to work in drag, wearing his cousin’s cheerleader’s uniform. The very thought of it had freaked out the southern belle—and to think that she had imagined him as a possible boyfriend! Shivering at the thought, Debbie almost told them, but then decided that to apprise them of it was not her place. Although growing up with an unfortunate reputation for gossip, since coming to Philadelphia for college she had tried to practice a modicum of self-restraint. After all, he’d not really done anything to her, save not be the kind of guy that she’d hoped that he were.

“I can’t tell you any more,” said Debbie. “But Sandra knows him better and I think she may’ve actually been to his building.”

“Could we talk with her, then?” Fiona requested. “It would really help.”

“I’ll go get her,” promised the barista.

☆ ☆ ☆

Having finished his shower and dried himself, Sean had pulled on his boxers and an undershirt. Next, he went back to his bathroom mirror and began wielding his blow-dryer in an almost hopeless attempt to control his unruly auburn mane. Then, he could hardly believe his next thought: maybe he needed a haircut. But Sean had always worn his hair long. He had no idea how he’d look with it short.

Nevertheless, he thought, it was time for a change. After all, he’d really outgrown the fun and games of switching clothes and trading places with his cousin. Indeed, dressing up as a girl had been fun for him on occasion, even into high school. Still, the time was now to put away that specific childish thing. And his guess was that Kelly was likely tired of it as well. Even now, though, a young woman seemed to peer back from the mirror at him more than a young man.

Since he needed to finish getting dressed, he returned to the closet, but firstly, he noticed Kelly’s blue dress still on the bed, somewhat crumpled, so he replaced it on its hanger, hoping that it might straighten out from its own weight. After all, a guy ought not sleep in his cousin’s favorite blue chiffon dress.

☆ ☆ ☆

“Debbie said you wanted to talk to me,” Sandra addressed Fiona and Mórag. “How can I help you?”

“We wanna stop by Sean’s place while we’re in the neighborhood,” said Fiona. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Sorry, but I can’t tell you,” the café’s manager apologized. “Our business’ policy doesn’t allow the release of any employee’s personal data without their written consent.”

Sandra didn’t know whether Sean still sought to avoid Fiona, but he had done so anxiously yesterday. Besides, Sandra thought that Fiona were unbalanced. So, until Sean told her otherwise, Sandra chose to protect his privacy, just as he’d done for her.

Three months earlier…

Sean’s landline quietly rang. That usually meant that he had a visitor seeking entry to the building. So he picked the handset up and answered.

“Hello?…”

“Sean? It’s Sandra. I need help,” pled a desperate voice. “Can I come in?…”

“Sure! I’ll let you in. I’ll be right down!…” Sean told her and bolted from his apartment and down the stairs. When he got to the landing, Sandra was doubled up on the floor, just inside the security door. “Did someone attack you? Should I call the police?”

“No! I’m cramping!” Sean’s boss told him, sobbing. “But it’s worse than ever—a lot worse!”

Carefully, Sean stood Sandra as upright as she could and helped her climb the stairs up to his apartment. He could see her tears flowing down her face chapped red from the wintry cold. Twice she nearly stumbled on the stairs, but Sean supported her to the top and led her directly into his main room as he’d left his door open when he went downstairs.

Sandra doubled up at one end of the sofa, dropping her purse in the floor as she let out a gasp of pain. “I have a heating pad and some pain pills in my purse. Can you get them for me?”

As the young woman held her lower abdomen as tight as she could, Sean rummaged through her purse, quickly finding her tartan-covered heating pad and an amber, transparent plastic bottle of pills: hydrocodone/paracetamol. He quickly went to the kitchen and brought his guest a glass of water so that she could take her pills.

“Thanks,” whimpered Sandra, taking the water from him.

“How does this heating pad work?” Sean asked.

“You heat it up in a microwave oven,” she answered. “Then I hold it next to me.”

Sean took the heating pad into the kitchen to warm it up, setting the timer for five minutes. Meanwhile, he figured that Sandra had to be cold, since she had apparently walked to his place from the café. He went into his bedroom to retrieve a colorful quilt from the top shelf of his big closet. He emerged from his bedroom to cover his guest with the quilt. “Would you like something hot to drink? Coffee, tea, cocoa?”

“Cocoa would be nice,” she replied.

The microwave oven beeped to signal that the warming pad was ready. It was very hot, so he carried it to Sandra wrapped in a hand towel. She applied it to her lower abdomen, near her crotch, in an attempt to relax her muscles and soothe the pain. Sean returned to the kitchen to prepare the beverages.

When the cocoa was ready, Sean filled a mug for Sandra and another for himself. She briefly flashed a weary smile as he gave her the cocoa. “Thank you, Sean.”

“You said the cramping was worse than usual,” he recalled. “So you’ve had cramps before?”

“Every month,” she answered. “They’re menstrual cramps. But most girls don’t get ’em this bad. My doctor calls it dysmenorrhea.”

“So you gotta go through this every month?”

“Well, they hadn’t been quite so bad until a couple of months ago. This is the third time like this, but this time the cramps are a whole lot worse.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Thanks, but don’t worry about it. It’s all part of being a woman.”

“Can I do anything else for you?”

“Please, hold me,” she said. Then indicating the lower abdomen, just above her crotch, Sandra asked him, “Could you hold me right here? Maybe even massage it a bit?”

Although he was anxious about it, Sean complied with her strange request, then realized that apparently, by compressing and massaging her lower abdomen with his hands, he was helping to relieve Sandra’s cramps. So he stayed with her, holding and massaging her until the next morning when he convinced her to let him drive her to University Hospital in her own car.

And now at the café…

As Sandra recalled that cold wintry night, her resolve to protect Sean’s privacy stiffened. After all, how many boys were willing to sit up with a girl, not even their own girlfriend, all night to hold her and to nurse her through an attack of extremely severe menstrual cramps? Most men get squeamish if a woman even mentions her period.

“Please?” begged Fiona.

“Sorry!” Sandra reiterated. “It’s just not allowed. I could lose my job for revealing that information. Besides, you could just call Sean and ask him.” Before Fiona or Mórag could follow up with another question, Sandra whirled around and scampered back to the bar to continue taking orders from the morning customers.

☆ ☆ ☆

Paolo looked at his agenda for the day. The week had been somewhat frustrating for him since he’d been unable to get Kelly’s Letter of Intent to sign with Cassini & Sons, LLP, because of her accident. On the other hand, that circumstance had led to the discovery of Sína, Kelly’s identical twin cousin. The two girls together offered a possible synergy that promised to make them his highest earning models.

However, he still had to bring Sína on board, even though she’d expressed some reticence—fear, really—about being photographed. Yet this was nothing new; few models had quite the natural gift before the camera that Kelly had demonstrated. Besides, the two girls shared enough genetics that Sína couldn’t be too different from her photogenic cousin.

Leaning back in his wingbacked chair, Paolo wondered whether he ought to visit Café Tír na n-Óg to try recruiting Sína again. Then again, he didn’t wish to frighten the girl away. Although he was certain that Kelly could get her cousin on the team, she still remained in a coma at St. Bonaventure’s Hospital. He hoped that if necessary, Sína might even substitute for Kelly. But Paolo didn’t even have a telephone number for Sína. Then he remembered that he did have a number for Kelly’s cousin Sean. David had given it to him. Perhaps Sean could help him get in touch with Sína.

Turning behind the divider for O in his agenda binder, Mr. Cassini remembered Sean saying, “two ens, two els.” So Paolo ran down the page until he found the name O’Donnelly, Sean. He entered Sean’s telephone number into his smartphone and waited for the ring…

☆ ☆ ☆

His smartphone rang the default ringtone, so Sean answered it.

“Hello?…”

“That you, Sean?…” said a familiar voice.

“Who’s this?…” he queried.

“This is Mórag,” the voice answered. “Fiona and I are here at Café Tír na n-Óg and wondered if we might stop by?…”

“Well, I just got out of the shower,” he told her. “I really need to get dressed first.…”

“Sorry if it’s too inconvenient—…”

“Alright, Mórag,” Sean conceded to her. He opened Kelly’s drawer in the dresser and began rummaging through it. “Give me half an hour and then you can come by.…”

“Where are you?” Mórag asked. “I know you’re close by, but not exactly where.…”

“Listen up!” Sean told her, as he continued looking for something among Kelly’s things. “Cross to the south side of Finnegan Avenue, turn left and walk east. Then cross to the next block and continue east to about the middle of the block. The building’s a long, three-storey brownstone, with an entrance facing north near each end. My apartment’s at the west end, so you should use the first entrance you’ll come to. Come inside the door. There’s a telephone board. Press the star key. When you get a dial tone, press pound-two-five-eight…”

“That’s it?…”

“That’s it!” confirmed Sean, closing his cousin’s drawer and pulling open Morgan’s. “The time it takes me leaving from my bedroom until clocking in at the café is only seven minutes.…”

“Okay, Sean!” Mórag accepted the arrangement. “We’ll see you then. G’bye!…”

“Goodbye!…” Sean ended the call. With a sigh of relief, he found his sister’s bottle of nail polish remover and took it into the bathroom.

☆ ☆ ☆

Paolo felt disappointed and more than a little frustrated when he heard Sean’s voicemail answer:

“Hello! You’ve reached Sean—well, not really Sean, but his voicemail. I’m willin’ t’ call ya back, but-cha gotta leave me y’r name an’ number so I can. So if y’r okay wi’ that, leave ’t after the beep!…”

Mr. Cassini wasn’t happy that Sean hadn’t answered the call himself. Paolo hated waiting for any call to be returned. He was about to hang up, but took a breath as the voicemail beeped.

“Hey there, Sean! This is Paul Cassini. I met a young woman named Sína O’Donnelly at the café yesterday and wondered if she’s related to you or Kelly. My number is area code two-six-seven…five-five-five…thirty-five-hundred. Please call me as soon as you get this…”

☆ ☆ ☆

Mórag informed Fiona, “He gave me very clear directions. His building is on the next block on the other side of Finnegan Avenue. He asked us to wait half an hour ’coz he just got out of the shower.”

“So he’s not trying to avoid us today?” Fiona asked rhetorically.

“He’s not been trying to avoid us, Fiona,” Mórag told her bandleader, yet thought, but perhaps he’s just trying to avoid you!

“I need another cappuccino, I think,” complained Fiona, her attention seeming to wander from their conversation. “For some reason this one didn’t meet my caffeine quota.”

“You should’ve had the chocolate croissant with it—or maybe a mocha,” suggested her bandmate. “Cherries just don’t do the trick in the morning—not for me, anyway.”

☆ ☆ ☆

Sean worked quickly, but remained focused as he stripped the polish from his nails. Peach was a subtler nail color, not likely to be noticed by another guy if he missed any, but a girl might notice stray polish. He still couldn’t recall doing his nails, although it had to’ve been while he was donning Kelly’s cheerleading uniform during yesterday’s early morning hours. He’d completely forgotten about the nail polish until his sister mentioned it later in the afternoon. He should’ve removed it after he came home. Then he wouldn’t be rushing it now. His biggest worry was that the odor of acetone might linger even though he’d turned the exhaust fan on in the bathroom. Fiona might notice that and wonder.

He needed also to put away his violin and the quarto of Bach’s sonatas and the music stand. Mórag would notice any of those.

But then Sean thought through what he was doing again. He could think of no good reason to allow Mórag or Fiona in his apartment. He didn’t invite them, anyway; they invited themselves. Sean would simply talk to them outside in the commons area.

☆ ☆ ☆

“This looks like it here,” announced Mórag. “And he said to use the west entrance.” She and Fiona turned to walk up the sidewalk to the door. When they opened it, they stepped inside a foyer where there was an arrangement of brass mailboxes on the west wall and the telephone board on the east.

Mórag picked up the telephone handset and pressed the * -key. When she heard the dial tone, she pressed #258.

Upstairs in his apartment, Sean answered his landline. “Hello?…”

“Sean, we’re here!” announced Mórag. “Can you buzz us in?…”

“Alright,…” replied Sean, and pressed the 9 -key. Downstairs, an electromagnet buzzed and opened a bolt securing the door, allowing Mórag and Fiona to enter the building. Still not comfortable with these girls, especially Fiona, entering his apartment, he decided to meet them in the lobby of the first floor, so he quickly bounded down the stairs. He offered them seats in the common area.

“Are you coming for your audition tonight, Sean?” Fiona demanded of him just as soon as she was seated.

“I promised you I’d be there an’ I will,” he assured her. “I’d’ve been there yesterday mornin’, but when I stopped at the café, they were really busy. Kat and Shelly hadn’ worked together before, so Sandra asked me t’ stay an’ get the shif’ runnin’ more smoothly. Anyway, I’ll be there tonight with me tin whistle an’ me clarinet.”

“D’you think you could play the Irish flute as well?” Mórag asked him.

Sean paused a moment. “Never tried it b’fore, but the fing’rin’ oughtta be the same,” he mused. “I can give it a try, too.”

“Still, the main thing we need you for is to fill in for Kelly on piano and keyboards as needed,” Fiona reminded him. “You can do that?”

“Not a problem,” he dismissed the worry implied by her question. “But it’s all about whether my style ’ll work wi’ yours? ’T will or ’t won’t. When I play for you tonight, that should settle it.”

“It works for me,” agreed Mórag. “But you are the bandleader, Fiona, so it’s your call.”

“Okay, then,” decided Fiona. “Sean, can you be ready at six-thirty? The van will stop here for you.”

“I’ll be waitin’ for ya,” he promised.

☆ ☆ ☆

Sean noticed the paper that he’d left on the corner of the table. It was the note that someone had slipped under his door. He unfolded and read it.

Good morning, Neighbor!

Heard your violin when I came in. I ♡ed listening to you play the Bach Chaconne. Hope to meet you soon!

♡ Adele

He walked over to the music stand, wondering what was there. His quarto of J.S. Bach’s Partitas & Sonatas for Solo Violin was indeed open to the Chaconne of Partita № 2. Still, he couldn’t remember playing it.

☆ ☆ ☆

Seamus leaned back in his seat on the transport out of Ramstein. He looked forward to seeing his family again, but Kelly—poor Kelly was still in a coma. Would he even have a chance to talk to her? He’d missed so much of her life already. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

When he’d enrolled in the Naval Recruit Officers’ Training Corps (NROTC) in college, Seamus never would have guessed that the decision would take him away from his wife and family for nearly a decade, with tours of duty in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Much of the Second Gulf War had been fought by Reservists. Too much, really. His buddy Malcolm had joined the program with him and had spent almost as long sailing the Persian Gulf.

Although he’d enrolled in the NROTC intending to spend his reserve duties in the Navy, his academic degrees in geology and the earth sciences caused the Marine Corps to take an interest in him. So Seamus ended up as a marine officer instead of as a naval officer. He was glad to have had the chance to visit Malcolm on his way home.

He peeked into the tote bag full of his friend’s gifts and noted one that had been properly gift-wrapped. It looked about the right size, so he rapped his knuckles twice and the knocking sound told him that the gift box was wooden. Seamus smiled as he tore the wrapping paper from the box. Two small brass keys were taped down next to the locking mechanism set into the wood. Taking one of the keys, he unlocked the door of the wooden box. Surrounded by a satin lining was a fifth (750 ml) of Connemara Peat Malt Irish Whiskey—Uisce Beatha. Also recessed in the satin lining were four shot glasses.

So Maj FitzPatrick broke the seal to open the whiskey, took one of the little glasses, and poured himself a libation.

“For family and friends,” the major whispered to himself and drank it down.

He poured a second shot. “For God and country!” He toasted his faith and service and imbibed it.

Seamus poured a third shot. Then with tears in his eyes, he whispered, “And now for you, my dearest, wee Kelly! Sláinte mhaith! ”

The major refilled the small glass yet again. “And now for you, Mike! Which be ye now, son or daughter? Courage to you either way—Sláinte mhaith! ”

So after the fourth shot of whiskey, he screwed the cap back on the bottle and locked it inside its small cabinet. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep for the duration of the flight.

☆ ☆ ☆

The Sleeper’s consciousness once again emerged from delta-waves to theta, and slowly, the mindscape began to form…

The four children appeared on stage to begin their demonstration of step-dancing in their school’s auditorium. Two of them, looking like twins, had long, curly blazing red hair, one of whom deftly played the violin instead of dancing. The tallest, a black-haired boy wearing a kilt, resembled the shortest member of the troupe, a girl whose long, black hair had been coiffed into luxurious, bouncing ringlets.

The bekilted boy and the two girls danced the complex pattern of steps as the red-haired boy in the pretty Irish dress dazzled the audience with his fiddling. Their schoolmates marveled at them, especially as none of them had seen or heard them perform before. Nor did anyone seem bothered that the fiddler, though a boy, wore a dress matching the girls’. Rather, the auditorium rang aloud with schoolchildren clapping and stomping in time to the beat of jigs and reels.

Usually the red-haired violinist played seated as his sister and cousins danced, but now he’d left his stool in the corner and moved about the stage, skipping and twirling around, his body pulsing with the beat as he conducted the audience in their response. Teachers looked on from the wings and from the audience as chaperones, wondering at the provenance of the talent displayed by so young a troupe.

The red-haired girl danced downstage to the apron during a jig, and, in a very un-Irish move, raised her hands and beckoned to those who might wish to come onstage from the audience to join them. A number of girls and boys came and bounded up the short run of stairs on either side of the proscenium. A few of them fell right into step with the other dancers, while others tried to learn by watching and copying their steps. These classmates experienced various degrees of success and failure, a few even tripping themselves up, but all participating with good-natured giggling and laughter as well as applauding from the audience. The teachers nodded in approval as the troupe welcomed the playfully intrepid volunteers onstage and helped them with their efforts.

At length, the fiddler played an authentic cadence to a jig with an audible and visible flourish, signaling the close of the performance. The troupe stepped forward with courtseys and a bow to the applause of their peers in the audience as well as onstage, bidding the volunteers to join them in their bows before returning to the audience. After that, the troupe skipped offstage while their classmates scampered back to their seats.

Meanwhile, in the wings, the taller, black-haired bekilted boy’s happy smile, worn for the stage, burst into tears as his sister and cousins tried to console him in a group hug.

Thus, the mindscape faded into a fog as the Sleeper, compassionate and concerned, descended once again into delta-waves…

☆ ☆ ☆

“Sir, wake up!” Technical Sergeant Vonda LaFleur, USAF, gently shook the sleeping Marine Corps officer. “Wake up, Major FitzPatrick! We’re approaching Keflavík. You have a layover there for lunch and then you board your flight to McGuire Air Force Base.”

As Maj FitzPatrick sat up, his stomach growled and he felt a throbbing headache, the result of downing four shots of Irish whiskey in rapid succession and sleeping through breakfast. “Forgive me, Sergeant,” apologized Seamus. “Could you bring me some coffee and if there be any pastries remaining from breakfast, one would be nice.”

“Cream and sugar, Major?” she asked.

“No—just black and as strong as you got!” he requested. “Got a headache this morning.”

As TSgt LaFleur walked back to the galley, the major observed how her jumpsuit caressed her swaying hips. What kind of woman looks so sexy in a flight suit? He quickly dismissed that thought from his mind. After all, his own girl, his gorgeous redheaded soul mate, awaited him at home.

A moment later, Vonda was handing him a tray with a cup of coffee, a plate with a cherry-filled croissant, and a packet containing two aspirin. He hadn’t even seen her return. He’d been thinking about Kathleen.

“Thank you, Sergeant!” Maj FitzPatrick acknowledged. “That’s what the doctor ordered! By the way, you’re certainly not aboard as a flight attendant, so whaddya do for the Air Force?”

“I’m the communications specialist, but the pilot asked me to make sure you were awake in time for touchdown.” The major had noticed her wearing a wireless earpiece with an attached microphone. She might be acting momentarily as a “flight attendant,” yet she was still engaged in her primary duties while exercising the traditional interagency courtesy.

“That’s fortunate, then. Could you get a message stateside for me?”

“Yes, I can,” she replied, taking a small pad of forms from a pocket in her uniform. “Just write it on here and I’ll send it for you.”

He accepted the pad from her and reached for a pen clipped to his own shirt pocket. “I’d like my son, Mike, to meet me at McGuire, if possible—I especially need to talk with ’im. Otherwise, maybe my wife could meet me instead. Although I could arrange for a staff car, I’d rather not tie one up for my furlough or impinge on a driver’s time. Oh! Please include the time scheduled for my transport t’arrive there.”

“Yes, sir!” TSgt LaFleur confirmed as Maj FitzPatrick returned the pad to her.

☆ ☆ ☆

The girl felt quite groggy. She slowly tried to open her eyes but the lighting in the room was too bright for her to open them quickly. And as she kept trying to open her eyes, she felt the surge of a brutally throbbing headache. She’d never felt such pain before.

She heard a somehow familiar voice that she couldn’t quite identify. The timbre of the voice was soft and mellow, yet dynamic, like a storyteller recounting a narrative. She tried to see who was speaking, but her vision was still blurry and the girl couldn’t focus. Nonetheless, she could make out a heavy mass in a distinctive shade of red where the speaker’s hair would be.

The girl tried to move an arm, but was now becoming aware of the tangle of lead wires to electrodes, intravenous (IV) tubing, and catheters to which she was connected. Slowly, her eyes began to focus, though she still fought a headache induced by photosensitivity. The speaker, seated in a chair and reading from a book, did have long mane of unruly red hair. Her own eyes glanced to the left and the girl observed a long curly lock of red hair, and somehow she knew that it was her own hair color.

Then, the girl became aware of discomfort beyond a headache and arms bruised from IV tubes. Her throat was dry and sore; her mouth, partched. Patiently, she awaited the saliva to build up in her mouth, but to no avail. So she made the best effort that she could, and from her lips, weakly creaked the word, “Water!”

Sean stopped his narration and glancing towards his cousin, they made eye contact. He poured some water from a pitcher on a stand beside him into a paper cup and stripped the paper sheath off an angled straw.

The nurse had told him what to do when Kelly awakened and he knew how to give her the water—not too much at first. Then after her lips were moistened and her mouth and throat wet enough to talk, she uttered a name as a one-word question: “Sína?”

“Well, you haven’t called me that in a long while, but I have used it.”

“Sína,” she addressed her cousin in her semi-conscious state, mistaking him for a girl. “Who am I?”