My son has been asleep for nine days.

By the second day, I’m mostly just spinning nonsense theories. Confirming to myself that it’s just a virus, he’ll wake up when his body is ready, that his daddy kissing the boo-boo is perhaps something special. By the second day, I’m almost convinced of it.<br><br>That was nine days ago, and with each of those days, my mind started to unravel. I went from silly theories to factual research to just knowing that it’s over. When I wake up tomorrow, it will be ten days. He will be ten years old. I’m too tired to do this anymore, but what choice do I have? I am my boy's father, and I will not keep this from him any longer.<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>I’m always a little distracted when I’m driving, but I remembered to keep my hands at ten and two; he would be proud. I squeezed the steering wheel so tightly just then that my knuckles turned white. From the backseat, I heard a weak, outstretched “Fa-ther?” I might have blacked out for a second. I pulled over and put the car in park, I might have squealed the tires, I don’t know. I opened the trunk and reached my mangled hands into the dead plastic bag, pulling it open. The largest scissor-like gardening shears I had could just barely wrap around the thickest part of the seatbelt. It took two good tugs, but the blades were dull and mostly looked like gardening implements. With the dumb uncoordinated motion of a desperate man, I threw the useless shears into the trunk, and slammed it shut. For a moment, I considered waiting for help, but the thought was so fleeting. I had to wriggle under the car and get my arms around the seatbelt there, to rip it apart with my bare hands. It took a long, long time, but I finally broke it. I had 10 or 12 gashes across my palms, and one of the scabs broke open during my task, but I only noticed it when I got back into the car and collapsed onto the wheel, crying. I almost forgot why I was doing it. My heart raced as I turned towards the backseat; my boy is sitting there, with dark bags under his eyes, and scaring, scabbing cuts on his left cheek and forehead. He looks so old.<br><br>He's shivering and his breath is visible; the car isn't running. I try to start the engine, but it won't turn over. I believe it’s the alternator. I can’t do this. I fell asleep in the driver’s seat, in a daze. For how long, I can’t say. When I woke up, he was shivering so hard his teeth were chattering, and he was crying. I started to cry too, and I hobbled towards his side of the car. His door was dead; the trunk was pushed into it, but I can’t do this. I left the car running and unrolled the passenger windows, cranked up the heat. I tried to lift him, but he’s far too heavy. I cried harder. I think it’s the cold, mostly. When I left the car for the second time, I almost fell. I limped towards the trunk and found the spare blanket that I used to swaddle him. I held it over my shoulder and started to cry harder, though I thought I’d stopped. I limped back to the passenger door, and pulled him into it. He was so much heavier than I remembered; his tiny shoulders looked like his father’s shoulders. I sobbed into his shoulder as I looked at him through tear-filled eyes. I pulled the blanket over him, and buttoned his coat. The door’s window was unlocked, so I turned the dial and pulled it open far enough to let the warm air in. I collapsed onto the seat next to him, and he rolled towards me. I wrapped my arms around him, and he did the same to me. I might have fallen asleep then, I’m not sure.<br><br>For the first few years of my boy’s life, he wouldn’t sleep through the night. I would hear him crying around four, and stumble through the door. Once I’d fed him, I would take his swaddled form and put it on my shoulder. I think it was the sound of my heartbeat that would soothe him to sleep, because he always fell asleep as I walked. I would spin the dial of the window, and let the cold air blow over him with the smell of fresh-cut grass and fresh earth. I remember how thin his shoulders were, how he would fit so neatly on my shoulder. I remember how his hand would wrap around my fingers; just two of his fingers could fit around my thumb.<br><br>Now, I felt the warmth of his breath on my chest, as his body shakes with sobs. His swaddled blanket had fallen to the ground. My face is wet with tears, and I think he’s doing the same when I hear him say “I’ll na-ever sleep.” I chuckled, though I’m still crying. He used to say that as a baby, I’d forgotten.<br><br>I remembered then how he used to spin the dial of the window. I might have blacked out again. The next thing I remember is the sound of the window breaking, and the unbelievable pain in my hand. When my left hand had broken the glass, the glass had broken my hand. Bone and blood hung form the jagged edges of the remaining pane. I held my right hand tight and with everything I had, I pulled the glass out of my hand. It fell into the fresh-cut grass of the park. I don’t recommend doing this by yourself. I pulled him into my arms, and hobbled towards the nearest bench. We’re across the street. I had no idea I’d traveled that far. I thought we were in front of the car when I broke the window.<br><br>I sat down, and held him tightly to me. With my right arm. I looked at my left hand and the white bone poking out of the open wound at the bottom, and I thought of something else. My boy does the same thing, dumbly gawking as I hold the remainder of my left hand by its wrist. When he finally snaps out of himself, he looks at me. He almost starts to cry again, but instead he looks away and starts pulling my coat over me. He sits up on his knees and pushes my hair out of the way. I remember him doing this to his stuffed rabbit when he was younger. I wonder idly if it’s still on his bed.<br><br>I knew that this time, no matter what, there was no changing it. I could run no longer. I thought I saw black spots. That may have been it. I remember that as I sat there, I thought that my boy hadn’t cut the grass when I mentioned it. But that must have been somewhere else, yet I thought I smelled it again. Fresh-cut grass, and fresh earth. I really must have blacked out, because I had no idea he was holding the gardening shears, until after he had done it. I saw a mixture of blood and bone on the tip of the blade, and I knew at once. I fell to the ground as I looked at my left hand. It was gone, cut off at the wrist. My son sat in the center of the bloodstain, staring blankly into space, the shears held in one hand, pushed deep into the grass. He sat up on his knees, and held his hand over the grass. I just realized he isn’t my boy anymore, he’s a man. He at least looks like one. I wanted to call him Son. I was going to call him my boy, but I looked at the back of his head and he looked so much older.<br><br>He was still shivering, so I limped back around the bench and fell onto it. I cried again as I thought of my name for him. He heard me crying, and turned towards me. He looked older and tired, but he stood up and walked towards me. When he approached, I squeezed his hand. Slowly, he squeezed back. “Ev-everything’s go-ing to be alright, Fa-ther.” There was still a stutter, but it was so much deeper than before. All his hair was gone. I must have fallen asleep. They say that’s what happens when your body gives out. I didn’t know until then, but I must have passed out sometime in the last few minutes. Or days. Or years.<br><br>A few of the other people in the park must have seen me screaming; they’re running towards me. They’re calling the police, and I can see flashing lights in the distance. They’re asking me to stand up, but I don’t want to. A man and a woman try to grab me, but I hit them. I figured it would be a minor scuffle, but I must not be as weak as I thought. I’m well over six feet tall, and I’m a black belt in karate. But I would have bet that I’m not capable of tossing two adults across a park. I hobbled away from the fight, back towards the car. I crawled through the driver's side door and turned the key; it started on the first try. I was starting to drive before I remembered why I had stopped. He had looked so much older…My perfectly preserved boy, with his swaddled blanket. I looked towards the backseat, and it was empty.<br><br>When I turned towards the road, I saw him walking toward me, until he saw me. He turned back towards the woman and the grass and he disappeared. I had something on the radio that night. I was so tired I couldn’t sleep and I needed to