I missed you in bed last night. If you had been there I would have shifted as I always do, so that your head could fit on my lap as I type, situating the weight of my arm along the back of your neck so that you know I am there, but not pressing on you too hard. It was a long day of sitting in front of a low-grade tractor beam, pulled a millimeter at a time into the worlds biggest pile of shit, images of infant corpses and burning hospitals juxtaposed with advertisements for PhD programs on foreign continents, mail-order diabetes medication, and discount ammunition, until Im all the way in it, trying to dig a tunnel to the other side but finding it useless, so I give up.
The radiation from the screen burns my eyes so I close them for a moment and pick up a guitar, but I cant remember any chord changes, or any lyrics, and it doesnt matter because my hands wont move. I look down at them and see hundreds of pencil lines drawn in crisscross patterns from my fingertips to my forearms, and as I look closer, I see that they are not lines at all but Gordian worms who, having been seen, begin crawling. I brush them away and realize that Im exposed, out in an open field, and I know that snipers will pick me off if they catch me in the sun, so I scramble for the nearest house. Inside it smells like shaved wood and industrial cleaners, its familiar but I havent been there all semester, fuck! Im going to fail this stupid class, and I didnt even know I was signed up for it, and so I wont graduate, and so I wont get a job, and so I might as well just leave. I empty my locker and get in the car and you are waiting there for me, crouched down in the passenger seat; I mash my forehead into yours and stroke your hair and start the engine. In a few minutes were on the highway, a little drunk and driving too fast with all three kids in the backseat, or maybe one was missing. We skid out of control and plow through the guardrail, sailing into the Ohio River.
I can get my window open and swim to safety but the rest of you are stuck and Im trying to figure out how to get to you before the car sinks too deep. Do I have something to cut the seatbelts with? Can I open the back end and pull the little ones out, at least one? How will I explain what happened? But then everything is okay, the children are in their beds and your frame makes its usual cursive m under the blanket next to me. I reach for your waist and remember that today is the last day of freedom, that Im going to prison for a long time, maybe forever, and its a misunderstanding but I have to report to the warden with a toothbrush and a book, only one book, so we cry together and we cry with the kids and we cry with everyone we know, and I grab the only book I can take, written in a language I dont recognize, and the goddamn thing is covered with mud and wasps. I throw it down and run, and now I dont remember what Im running after or why, but you are with me, and someone is trying to kill us. We duck down a long corridor and snake through alleys behind mossy brick buildings, taking steps like injured cats, knowing that if we are heard we are dead, because everyone is in on this plot. I begin to wonder if you are even you anymore.
Then we crawl into an old warehouse through a broken stained-glass window and we are safe again, forever; the breathing slows, the pulse returns to normal, the blood warms in the veins, it will always be like this. Do you remember any of it? Of course not. I try to tell you weve made it, how we fought and survived together, and my teeth fall out. I spit them on the nightstand and check my phone, then put a hand on the babys chest to make sure shes still breathing. She is. Anyway I hope you are home soon, Ill leave a small light on because its very dark and I dont want you to stumble.
Dan Canon is a civil rights lawyer and law professor. His book Pleading Out: How Plea Bargaining Creates a Permanent Criminal Class is available for preorder wherever you get your books.