A pair of robins dance across the pickets of an aging, cherry-tone fence.

On Gina's porch, Waylon rocks on his favorite wicker chair: the only one with completely intact cushions; next to a wicker end table that's just the right height to rest his morning tea; and no wooden support pillar to block his view of the backyard. It's peaceful. His shoulders aren't tight and his head isn't throbbing. He sips on his amber-colored oolong tea, breathing in the pepper-like scent coiling away from the cup upon wisps of steam. He rocks and he sips.

Each rock of the chair and shift of weight sets loose a myriad of creaks that mix with the unceasing buzz of cicadas hiding in the maple trees overhead.

It's peaceful. Different though. Distant. He's a ghost, a visitor plucked from another world and planted in a hollow imitation of what was.

Mourning doves dive from the treetops and flit near the tip of the fence. They strafe past the robins, barring their talons and beating their own gray, black-speckled wings.

A jolt of anger stings behind his temple and he jerks up in his chair, hovering just above the cushion. "Hey! Leave them alone, there's plenty of room for all of you!"

The back door creaks open. Waylon falls onto the cushion and yanks his head back to look.

Staring back at him is a man: medium length, brown hair mostly set in a pony tail near the crest of his head; a scraggly goatee that looks like he stepped right out of an old pirate movie; and tall, much more than Waylon himself. Phillip flashes his ridiculous grin and drops into the wicker chair next to Waylon. "What are you yelling about out here, hun? Gave Gina a good enough spook that she nearly sent a bottle of rum through the window."

Waylon's mind and heart hum. Discordant feelings transition to a resolute melody, a familiar leitmotif that follows behind Phil where and whenever he makes an appearance. Warmth, weightlessness, belonging. Even then, Waylon rolls his eyes before relaxing against the chair's backrest. "Good. You all should stop drinking anyway, so it's like I did her a favor."

Phil's head drops low and he bares a grimace toward Waylon. "We're going to enjoy the occasional drink no matter how many times you say something about it, Waylon. Is something stressing you out?"

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Pain blossoms and Waylon lets his eyes close; he massages at his temple with two fingers. "I know, I know. I won't bring it up again. I'm sorry you have to keep reminding me. I'll do better."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet, I can handle it."

Phil stares into Waylon's eyes and the moment stretches. His bright, pale-orange irises sparkle with hints of green, red, and purple: reflections of the plants all around that sway in the light, summer breeze.

They're just eyes, but they're spectacular and comforting, just like they've always been. Waylon loses himself in their power-tinted color and —

Something crashes against the backdoor. A mountainous crash of a knock that sends the still fighting birds scattering into the wind and a previously unseen rabbit darting under the boxwoods.

Waylon's heart jumps and both Phil and himself snap their heads around. Another boom and the door jutters in its frame. Waylon shoots to his feet and jerks to a stop between the door and Phil.

Phil covers his ears and shouts over the deafening noise. "What's going on? What's happening?"

Another crash and the door explodes into splinters that scatter over the patio and nearby grass. Fear bites at Waylon's heart; it locks his limbs in place and slicks his body in sweat. I can't. I'm not losing him again. No matter what.

A woman that's more akin to a statue of pure muscle than anything resembling a living, breathing human steps through the doorway. Gina, with her head full of grey hair rustling in the breeze. She swirls an amber cocktail and takes a sip amid the tinkling of ice against glass. "How'd you get that door open Phillip? Wouldn't budge an inch for me!"

Fear disappears in an instant and — ready to chide her — Waylon blinks. Before he can open his eyes again, everything changes.

Cushioned wicker shifts to stiff, cold metal that digs into his back; the steady beeps of hospital life support replace chirping birds; and Gina's voice morphs into another, much deeper one. "Mr. Ishii? Are you awake? Visiting hours are over, it's time to head home."

His heart falls. Any illusion of drifting back into his dream disappears at the sound of that voice. Should he even bother breathing at this point? The pressure of stale air burns inside his chest. Begging him. He sits with it, not even sure if he has the energy to take a breath.

Whoever it is speaks again. "Mr. Ishii?"

Waylon's lungs draw in air almost by themselves. He rolls his eyes open and lulls his head forward from its position dangling over the back of the visitor's chair. On the hospital bed in front of him, tubes and cables wrap around Gina's body. An oxygen mask covers her face. She lays motionless except for the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He grasps at her limp, skeleton-like hand. "Can I have a few more minutes. Please."