He felt cold horror of an almost alien sort as he began to absorb what this might be. The horror didn’t extend to gut, to the dilation of eyes, to breathing. The coldness of the emotion was at stark odds with the heated, breathless “Fucker!” that passed through his lips.

Through Tristan’s lips. The horror welled.

Byron watched as the eyes, not his, moved across the room. Looking for—for him. Searching for some sign. They moved to the blood puddle, then scanned the surroundings, tracing a line up the stairs, zig-zagging in a search for a trail of blood.

Every movement of the eye felt like someone was taking his eyes, wresting them to one point of focus, then to another. Muscles fired into action, felt alien around the edges because the configuration was right, but the scale and pattern was that one percent to ten percent different. The muscles forced the body into movement, into balancing to stay upright.

There were more coughs as Tristan rubbed his throat. He made his way up the stairs, into the kitchen, then wandered through the house, hands running through hair, around the neck, fidgeting.

Byron wanted to struggle, to push out, to find a way free. There was nothing. He could feel, he could think, and he could sense what Tristan sensed. There was nothing beyond that.

Having finished searching the house, checking the small bedroom for Byron, Tristan made his way back to the kitchen. He took a seat at the kitchen table, and buried his face in his hands, coughing once or twice. His throat hurt, and Byron felt the hurt.

With every second that passed, not even able to control the focus of his vision or sharpen his awareness on any point within the eye’s field of vision, Byron felt his thoughts growing more confused. There was nothing here, only void, and everything in thought and emotion bled out aimlessly into that void, with no perspective, no grounding, no action he could take.

Please no, he thought. Whatever this is. Please.

Emotions welled, but without a heartbeat, a stomach, muscles, and breathing to give substance, they were like blots of watercolor, bleeding out and into one another.

“Tristan?” Papa asked. He put down his bike helmet, stepping into the kitchen. He was sweaty from his ride back from work. The biking was because he was trying to lose weight, but he was only part of the way there—everything about him from mustache to build were heavy and thick. Heavy eyebrows furrowed in concern. “What happened?”

Tristan stared off into space.

“Tristan?” Papa asked. He seemed to see something that alarmed, because he turned toward the front hall. “Anita! Come fast!”