the whisper of space being compressed.
Anthony Doerrthe dreams had ceased coming, as they often did, retreating somewhere else for years, until another event of sufficient significance neared, and the patterns of circumstance dragged them to the surface again.
Anthony DoerrHe thought he might say more, but something in her face had closed off, and the opportunity passed.
Anthony DoerrHe checked the barometer he'd nailed to the family room wall: the pressure was rising.
Anthony DoerrHe could not look at his daughter without feeling his heart turn over.
Anthony DoerrHere was the worst curse: he managed to force the dream from his conscious mind often enough that when it returned to him (opening the pantry door, say, recalling the sweep of floodwater), the experience of it became fresh and bleeding once more.
Anthony DoerrYou lose sleep, you lose your appetite, but eventually you fall asleep and eventually you eat - you may hate yourself for it, but the body's demands are incontrovertible. He had always felt guilty about that, that he went on living, eating tomato sandwiches, going to Iditarod Days with his father, making snowballs, when his mother could not.
Anthony DoerrHe would be relegated to a post best left fastened and buried.
Anthony DoerrBehind her leg a shy little girl - Grace - smiling up. "Dad?" It was a kind hope. But his dreams spoke to none of that: when he slept he dreamt of darkness, or of people he did not recognize, or of water closing slowly, almost gratefully, over his head.
Anthony Doerrsilent desperation of everything they never said - gaps and absences in every conversation, the past circumscribing the present, the future hemming in the past.
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