His head twisted and turned against my shoulder, mouth open and teeth bared as he tried to suck in air. I leaned my forehead against him and whispered in his ear the art of breathing, something we’d been taught a long time ago, telling him that we were fine, we were safe, we were together, and we weren’t going to make him leave, he could never leave us, of course he couldn’t. He was here, we were here, and I needed him to breathe. I needed him to take in a breath and hold it, then let it out and hold again. He could do it, I told him, because I believed in him. I believed in him more than I did in anyone else. I knew what he was capable of, what he could be, and he’d just stumbled, just gotten a little lost. But we’d found him again, and he needed to breathe and breathe and breathe.

Otter was on his knees beside the bathtub, a big hand wrapped firmly around the Kid’s ankle, holding him still, saying everything without speaking a single word. His thumb brushed up and down against the knob of the Kid’s ankle where his jeans had ridden up.

It went on, as these did with him. People who don’t have panic attacks can never understand just how bad they can be. The mind works against the body, and even though you know you can breathe, you’re convinced you can’t, and there’s nothing you can do about it until it passes. You’re trapped in your own head until it lets you go. That’s what the Kid told me. He said it couldn’t be explained, that no matter how smart he was, once it got its claws in him, he was at its mercy until it finally released him.

There’d been bad ones before. After Mrs. Paquinn. Dom’s birthday party. The wedding invitation. But I didn’t think there’d ever been one like this.

It felt like it went on for hours.

But I kept whispering in his ear, and Otter kept his hold on him, and eventually there came a great, gasping breath and the Kid tensed full body against me before he collapsed and began to sob bitterly against my chest.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m—”

“I know,” I managed to say. “I know.”

HE SLEPT deeply in the ruins of his room. He’d laughed a little hysterically at the sight, clothes strewn everywhere, drawers hanging haphazardly, the hole in the wall. Otter had pushed his mattress back up onto the bed, pulling the comforter back and letting him crawl into bed, freshly showered and dressed in sweats. He’d turned away from us almost immediately toward the wall, pulling the comforter up to his shoulder and burying his face into the pillow.