He approaches me.
“Are we clear on that?” he asks.
I offer a shy smile. “We are.”
“Now, go,” he gestures.
I run up to his room––our room––to change and run back down.
As I reach the last step, a crashing sound has me jumping out of my skin.
I yell, my hands flying to my beating heart.
“Levi, are you okay?” I rush to the living room.
He’s standing there, the pieces of a broken bottle of vodka shattered at his feet, his eyes closed, a hand gripping his chest.
His face is as white as a ghost, and the beads of sweat dotting his forehead are quite telling.
So is his labored breath.
Oh, no.
Since Daddy’s death, I’ve dealt with enough bouts of extreme fear to recognize the signs.
I approach him and place a hand on his arm.
“Levi,” my voice comes out in a near whisper.
He opens his eyes.
“Hey,” I say.
He fixes his aqua blue eyes on me, but it’s as if he doesn’t see me.
“Are you having a panic attack?” I chance.
He offers a small nod.
“Breathe,” I soothe.
He lets out a single breath.
Then another.
And another.
It takes a few long seconds, but eventually, he regulates his breathing.
Without warning, he reaches out for me, stepping on the broken glass.
He cups my face in his hands, boring his eyes into mine.
He doesn’t say a word. He just stares.
“Let’s go sit,” I suggest.
He nods.
