He could sense the hyper anxiety crawling over his body, his nerve endings were raw, the cheese grater had been taken to his skin, exposed all the nerves to the cold whisper of air that hit them and caused pain, an anxious pain that could only get worse. There was never any thought that recovery might happen, only the consuming knowledge that it was going to get worse, cause more vulnerability and fear. Hope of any outcome that would help, that might be positive, just went into the ether, into the rising air, leaving him in the lower gloom where the air had no sustenance, where breathing didn’t really work, it didn’t refresh, it didn’t nurture, it merely allowed the lungs to take in a supply that stopped you dying. Although many times Ever had tried to hold his breath, to stop the process of breathing, hold his breath until – always the word until – as it carried a future. Filled with a misery and a depression that he could feel building from the roots that his feet took comfort from in the ground, he knew he was in trouble. Knew he was in for a bad time, knew that he needed help, he was taken over by the bad thoughts and wanted just to bury his head in shame, to protect himself from his mind, his actions and not go through what he felt was inevitable.

Twenty-seven.