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Every nerve in her screamed and burned for Scott's return. And withered in the cold envelope of silence she shared, staring at her sleeping twins in their abandoned cribs. The moan of his heat passed through the bedroom panes and stirred inside their flannel pajamas and into her heart and brain like a stray drowning in flood-swollen streams. She bent over the small faces echoing loss and anguish innocently in dreams yet unformed to a world torn of coherence. How would they bear the years stolen and to be, ripped alone, apart from their integral source. Jason whimpered adrift on infancy in the terrifyingly horrible beauty of the moment. She lifted him up to her chest for a physical reassurance that eluded her spiritually. He curled drowsily into the pliant warmth of an exterior he'd known from within scant months before the deluge engulfed them.
Evelyn tried to write in the journal she kept for her sons as they grew, to know their story. Steel blue ink splashed into the scraped ridges of her fingertips and in malformed blotches onto the page. With a tortured cry, she reached for the gin again to steady her hand. "Why can't I keep anything neat?" her heart wailed to a head shuddering hapless in spacticity.
"Mom, Kicker peed on the rug again!" Danny complained.
She picked up the quart, wobbled decidedly toward the hall, and poured the contents over Kicker's shaggy behind. "Don't," she demanded, "do that again."
"Mother," Jason noted, dragging their soaking carpet out the back door. "You're nuts."